


Soul By Soul And Silently

by Pargoletta



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Implied Violence, Off-Stage Sexual Violence, Politics, Sick Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pargoletta/pseuds/Pargoletta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft takes advantage of his position to bring Sherlock and John behind the scenes on a potential political deal.  But what was supposed to be a single gala event quickly becomes a puzzle that Sherlock, John, and Sarah must unravel to expose the secrets of powerful men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. My Brother's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of Arthur Conan Doyle, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.
> 
>  
> 
> Note: Welcome to this story! I had a lot of fun with my first Sherlock story, so here’s another one.
> 
> The villains are inspired by real-life criminals. They’re definitely bad people, and they do bad things to people, inflicting abuse both intentional and unintentional. I can’t promise that characters won’t get hurt. If you feel like you want to stop reading and read something else, I won’t be offended.
> 
> That being said, enjoy the story, and I’ll meet you at the end.

**1\. My Brother’s Keeper**

* * *

The crisp winter air burned bracingly in John’s throat as he jogged steadily past the Royal College of Physicians. He had been on day shifts at the Princess Grace Hospital for the past week. The atmosphere there was pleasant, and it was almost obscenely convenient both to his home and to his daily jog around the Outer Circle of Regents Park. He had even enjoyed shifting the jog from early morning to late afternoon, because he could see new faces along the familiar route. Instead of the dog walkers and tai chi classes, John could watch old men taking their constitutionals and small children playing under the watchful eyes of mothers or nannies.

As he jogged down Park Square East, he had to skip aside to avoid tripping over a bright green ball that rolled across his path. The ball was followed in short order by a small boy, barely more than a toddler, in such hot pursuit of his toy that his surroundings made no impression on him whatsoever.

“Whoa there!” John reached down and scooped the boy into his arms just before he could follow the ball off the kerb and into the traffic of Euston Road.

“Georgie!”

A young woman in a worn blue hoodie barrelled out of the gardens towards them. John smiled and turned the boy toward her. “Lose something?”

“Georgie!” the woman cried again. She lifted him from John’s arms and hugged him tightly. “Oh, Georgie, you could have been killed, you horrible child,” and she showered kisses over his face. “What would your mum have done then? If it weren’t for this nice man here . . .”

She glanced at John, and a broad smile lit her face, though her brow was still furrowed with worry. “Thank you,” she said, blinking back tears. Her eyes were a marvellous shade of green.

“Not at all. Glad I was able to catch him in time, Miss . . .?”

“Dee,” the woman said, glancing away. “Just Dee.”

“Dee,” John repeated. “Mmm. Lovely. Short for Deanna?”

“No. Just Dee.”

“Ah. Well, pleasure to meet you, Just Dee. I’m John Watson.”

“Thank you,” Dee repeated. “I should go. Got to get him home for tea. We’re not usually out at this hour. He must have got overexcited.”

John smiled. “He’ll sleep well tonight, then. Nice to run into you, Georgie. Stay away from the road till you’re a bit bigger, alright?” John wiggled his nose at Georgie to make Dee laugh, then nodded to her and continued his jog down Euston Road toward Baker Street.

* * *

When he arrived at home, he took a few minutes to stretch before letting himself in. The post had arrived, and Mrs. Hudson had sorted it and left John and Sherlock’s stack on a small table in the hall. John scooped it up without looking at it and headed upstairs.

He found Sherlock in the kitchen, peering intently into the new microscope that had been his Christmas gift from Mycroft. Sherlock did not look up when John arrived, but held out his hand. “Paper.”

“What?”

“Paper. A small piece of paper. Give me one.”

“Oh. Well, I’ve got the post.” John rifled through it quickly to make sure that there were no bills for Sherlock to destroy. There were two catalogues, four magazine subscription offers, and a large envelope of silky, cream-coloured paper hand-addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. John handed the whole pile to Sherlock. “You’ve got a letter there, so be careful. Have fun. I’m going to take a shower.”

“Mmm.”

John chuckled and went up the next flight of stairs to the bathroom.

* * *

The hot water loosened muscles that had just begun to stiffen, and John hummed a little as he towelled himself off and pulled on jeans and an old, soft jumper. Still finger-combing his hair into place, he returned downstairs to find Sherlock curled in his armchair glaring at the now-shredded cream envelope as if he had developed a personal vendetta against it. Which, John, considered, was not outside the realm of possibility.

“So, what have you got there?” John asked, making sure to keep his tone light.

“An invitation,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been summoned to a _soirée_.”

John could not stifle his laugh. “Sorry,” he said. “I must still have a bit of water in my ears. For a moment, I thought I’d heard the word ‘soirée’ come out of your mouth.”

“Oh, don’t play games, John. You heard me perfectly well.”

“Yeah, but it just sounds so . . . I mean, who actually uses the word ‘soirée’ to describe a drinks party these days?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed even further. “The same sort of people who describe themselves as their younger brother’s archenemy.”

“Ah.” John wondered if he should press for more details, but Sherlock beat him to the decision.

“Mycroft requests the pleasure of my company on Saturday evening for a formal reception at Number 10, with dinner to follow,” Sherlock said, sounding as if he’d been invited to bludgeon a puppy to death.

John sucked in a breath. “Number 10?” he asked. “ _The_ Number 10?”

“What other Number 10 would Mycroft deign to use?” Sherlock said, his voice dripping venom. “I’m even allowed to bring a plus-one.”

John was not an especially prescient man, but he thought he could see what was coming, and he wracked his brain for anyone who could present a plausible alternative. “Well, I’ll bet that Molly’s got something gorgeous in her wardrobe just waiting to be paraded in front of the Prime Minister.”

“What? Why would I take Molly? It’ll be dull enough there without her simpering at me.”

“Mrs. Hudson, then? She’d love an evening out like that with you. Be a real treat for her.”

To his credit, Sherlock did not immediately dismiss the suggestion out of hand. “She would. But, unfortunately, I’ll have to leave her to her knitting, or whatever it is she does in the evenings. A plus-one invitation from Mycroft can only mean one thing.” He stared pointedly at John.

“What, me? Seriously? No. Why me?”

Sherlock sighed. “Oh, keep up, John. It’s Mycroft. ‘Plus-one’ sounds so much more elegant than ‘handler.’”

John knew he was beaten, but it would never be said that Dr John Watson went down without a fight. It might be one of the most inane clichés ever used, but then, he’d gritted his teeth through “Where am I?” upon waking up in a field hospital with a bullet hole in his shoulder. He could do this. “What,” he asked crisply, “do you think I’m going to wear?”

Sherlock waved the question away. “Surely you have something.”

“I have a sports coat, Sherlock. You’ve seen it.”

“What, that awful purplish-brown thing? You can’t wear that.”

“I know.”

“I would send you to my tailor, but it’s too late to have anything made. Mycroft should have thought of that.”

John nodded. “You’re right. But that doesn’t get us any closer to solving the problem.”

Sherlock looked John up and down as he considered the question. “Well, what did you wear to Harry’s wedding?”

“Dress uniform. Can’t wear that any more.” But the mention of Harry’s wedding sparked an idea.

Clara had dreamed of a traditional white wedding since she had been a little girl, and had not let marrying Harriet Watson put a dent in that ideal. She had worn a flowing, strapless white dress with a lace veil, and had suggested a graceful black pantsuit for her bride. But Harry had wanted something a bit more dashing, and she’d still had the figure to pull it off back then. “Harry was into Marlene Dietrich at the time,” John mused.

“Who?”

“Old German film star, used to wear men’s suits. Harry went to one of those formal wear shops and hired a dinner suit and top hat. Looked fantastic on her.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said with a crisp nod. “Well, then, there you are. Go back to that shop and hire a suit. Any shop that can fit your sister can certainly fit you well enough. There, that’s settled.” He unfolded himself from the chair, took the invitation to the mantel, and pinned it down with a decisive stab of Swiss Army knife.

John admitted defeat and went to find his mobile to call Harry and ask the name of the shop.

* * *

“I look like a headwaiter.”

John stared at his reflection in the mirror and attempted to adjust his tie. He had never liked bow ties. Behind him, Sherlock crouched down to buckle John’s cummerbund.

“At one of those really posh restaurants,” John went on. “The ones with linen tablecloths and three sets of forks laid out on the table.”

“Well, you’re not finished yet.” Sherlock finished with the cummerbund and picked up the dinner jacket, neatly laid out on John’s bed. “Arms.”

He helped John into the jacket, and then came around to the front to smooth the shoulders and perk up the white cotton pocket square. With deft fingers, he straightened the line of military decorations that John had pinned across the lapel. Then he stepped back so that John could view himself in the mirror.

John nodded approvingly at his own image. He couldn’t hope to match Sherlock’s bespoke, waistcoated elegance, but he fancied that the smooth dark lines of his own suit took five years off his age.

“You don’t look like a headwaiter now,” Sherlock observed.

“No, I don’t.”

“In fact, I’d say you’ve advanced all the way to maître d’hôtel.”

John laughed. “Hush, you. Let’s go out and hob with the nobs.”

* * *

John was glad, but not at all surprised to find a shiny black car waiting for them out front. He was under no illusion that Mycroft had sent it out of politeness; most likely, it was there to ensure that Sherlock actually showed up at the soirée. Still, John appreciated not having to flag down a taxi and fumble with his wallet, which was lodged in an unfamiliar pocket.

Waiting for them inside the car was Mycroft’s assistant, whom John still thought of as “Anthea,” for lack of any other name. She wore her usual neat but nondescript business suit.

“Evening,” John said as he and Sherlock settled themselves in the car. “You’re not coming to the party?”

“No,” she replied. “I’m to get you ready.”

John cast a puzzled frown at himself and Sherlock, already dressed in impeccable style, as far as he could tell. Mycroft’s assistant gave a polite little smile clearly intended to project affectionate tolerance of John’s astounding idiocy. Quick as a flash, she reached out and whipped the pocket square out of John’s breast pocket. John had time only for a choked “Oi! What are you --“ before she replaced it with a much nicer handkerchief of white silk.

John fingered the silk, able to deduce only that it felt expensive, and then gave a grudging nod. “All right,” he said, “but I’ll need that one back. Belongs to the shop.”

Mycroft’s assistant gave another tolerant little smile, and turned her attention to Sherlock. She reached into a plain paper bag on the seat beside her and pulled out a plastic clamshell container that held a white carnation boutonnière. Two green leaves poked up in the back, and the main flower was augmented with a spray of baby’s breath. Sherlock eyed the thing with open distaste, but allowed Mycroft’s assistant to pin it to his lapel anyway. When she had finished, Sherlock glanced from his own lapel to John’s more colourfully decorated one.

“I have never had any desire to enter military service,” he began, and John sent silent thanks to the heavens for that, “but I am beginning to regret turning down those knighthoods.”

“Bad luck for you, then,” John replied, leaning back in the comfortable leather seat. “Maybe you’ll remember that flower the next time that Mycroft tries to offer you one.”

That earned him a glower and a snort. Satisfied, John gazed out the tinted window and began to allow himself to enjoy the novelty of attending a formal gathering at the home of the Prime Minister.


	2. Politics By Other Means

**2\. Politics By Other Means**

* * *

The ride to Downing Street took a little over ten minutes, which, in John’s estimation, was not quite enough time to prepare for such an event. All too soon, the car purred to a stop outside the most important terraced house in the country, and the driver was holding the door open. Sherlock stepped out of the car with every bit of his self-confidence fully intact, and John followed, straightening his posture to parade ground propriety.

Maids whisked their overcoats away as soon as they stepped inside. John could hear the faint strains of chamber music emanating from somewhere within. He sniffed discreetly, and detected a faint alcoholic tinge to the air. The chamber music grew louder for a moment, and then quieted. A few moments later, Mycroft appeared to greet them in person. John had half expected Mycroft to wear some sort of sash or official medal, but his dinner suit was as plain and elegant as Sherlock’s, and no doubt from the same bespoke tailor.

“Ah,” Mycroft said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Sherlock. How delightful to see you at our little function.”

“I’m here, as summoned,” Sherlock retorted. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Patience, Sherlock. Do allow me to be a good host.” He turned to John. “The estimable Doctor Watson. What an impressive collection of commendations. It speaks highly of your service to the country.”

John suspected that Mycroft not only knew all the details of John’s service, but probably had personal copies of his commendations filed in a safe somewhere. He plastered a smile on his face and shook Mycroft’s hand, making sure to keep his grip firm. Without breaking his smile, he leaned a little closer.

“Seventy pounds,” he murmured.

Mycroft blinked. “Pardon?”

“Seventy pounds. For the dinner suit hire. For your ‘little function.’ I can’t imagine that we’re here simply to do the social rounds, so it’s for a job. I’ll take a cheque.”

Mycroft’s smile did not falter. “I shall have it sent Monday morning.”

“Thank you.”

“And once this business is concluded, I shall book an appointment for you with my tailor.” Mycroft held up a hand to forestall John’s reply. “I insist. A little gift to you. So much more convenient than expecting you to hire one every time.”

John wasn’t sure he liked the sound of “every time,” but if Mycroft wanted to spend money to buy him a bespoke dinner suit, then that was his own business, and John was not about to quarrel.

“Social pleasantries concluded,” Sherlock said. “What do you want of us, Mycroft?”

Mycroft did not answer immediately, but ushered them into a small, empty office. He shut the door and checked to make sure the blinds were drawn before he turned to face them.

“The current ambassador to Germany is expected to retire shortly,” he told them. “There are several candidates for his replacement. Most of what there is to know about them, I know.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. “That doesn’t explain our presence here.”

“I said most, Sherlock. Not all. There are several minor details. An outside eye would be most helpful.”

Mycroft’s delivery of that line was no more convincing than Sherlock’s, and John barely managed to turn a bark of mirthless laughter into an almost discreet cough.

“I will introduce you, of course,” Mycroft went on, as if he had not heard. “You will simply mingle. Engage in conversation. Enjoy the dinner. And, at a later date, we will discuss the pleasant evening we will all have had.”

“Still not interested in being your spy,” John said.

“Don’t think of it as spying. Think of it as . . . direct popular evaluation. After all, we are choosing your representative. Who will be paid out of your taxes. Think of it as an opportunity.” Mycroft’s smile looked more reptilian than ever.

At last, John thought he understood. For all his intelligence, Mycroft wasn’t very good at people. He wanted Sherlock’s sharp eyes to confirm and supplement his own deductions, and he wanted John to size up their human merits. It was probably as much of an admission of limits as Mycroft would ever make. And if it earned John a night of being wined and dined with the movers and the shakers, then so much the better. He decided to allow himself to be flattered. He glanced over and caught Sherlock’s eye, and received a miniscule nod in return.

Sherlock pasted a brilliant smile across his face. “Well, then,” he said. “Let’s go meet our prey, shall we?”

* * *

A footman standing at one of the doors to the Pillared Room straightened as Mycroft approached, then opened the doors for the latest arrivals. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.” A few heads near the door turned, but for the most part, the announcement was lost in the ambient noise of roughly fifty guests and a string quartet.

Sherlock had turned on the charm for the occasion, and slipped away into the crowd, inserting himself deftly into a conversation between a woman in a sequined black cocktail dress and a man wearing a white silk turban.

Not feeling quite so adventurous, John allowed Mycroft to lead him over to an almost impossibly neat and well-groomed couple who could have been featured as owners of a hunting estate in _Country Life_. The man turned and smiled as he saw Mycroft approaching.

“Ah, Mycroft!” he said. “Delighted. What a charming little get-together you’ve arranged.”

“Quite,” Mycroft replied. “Well, Brighty, I promised I’d spread your name around. May I introduce an . . . associate of mine, Dr. John Watson. John, Mr. Jonathan Brighton. Old school friend, and on our short list.”

John called up the smile he used for greeting superior officers and held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Brighton’s handshake was firm and dry. “May I present my wife, Francine.”

Francine gave a pleasant little smile, but did not extend her hand. John gave her a crisp nod instead. “Charmed.”

Francine nodded back and then retreated to her husband’s side once more. Mycroft grinned broadly and clapped both John and Brighton on the shoulders. “All friends here. Splendid. Ah, do excuse me. I’ve just spotted Sir Niall over there, and I really must introduce him to my brother.” He excused himself from the conversation as neatly as he had inserted himself, leaving John and Brighton smiling blankly at each other, neither one quite sure how to continue.

A diplomat to the bone, Brighton rescued the moment, allowing his glance to stray to John’s lapel. “Military man, eh, Doctor?”

“Well, ex-Army,” John replied. “Formerly Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

Brighton searched his memory quickly. “Afghanistan, as I recall, yes?”

“That’s right. Afghanistan.”

“Awful business. Seen any action?”

“Far too much.” As he spoke, it occurred to John to wonder if anyone in the room had had a hand in making the decisions that had sent the soldiers whose wounds he had patched to the battlefield. His leg gave a twinge at the thought, and he lifted a flute of champagne from a tray carried by a passing waiter so as to have something to fill his hands.

Brighton seemed to recognize that the subject of Afghanistan was a delicate one, for he simply nodded and did not ask any more questions about it. Instead, he moved on to the topic of John’s current activities, and John regaled him with a few heavily redacted tales from the GP’s office.

“Surely you’re wasted on that kind of work, John,” Brighton said with a laugh. “With your record, any A&E in the city would snap you up as soon as you offered.”

“Consider it checking around, then. Once I’ve canvassed all the A&Es in London, then I’ll choose the best.”

“I like the way you think!” Brighton clapped John on his bad shoulder, and John plastered a grin on his face to camouflage his wince. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Sherlock standing by the fireplace, his hands stuffed into his pockets, listening to the conversation of another couple very much like the Brightons. Sherlock’s face was paler than usual, and John noticed a distinct twitch in his shoulders, almost as though he were trying to retreat into his dinner jacket like a turtle.

“I hate to monopolise your time,” he said to Brighton. “Would you excuse me? Think I’d better hit the Gents before dinner.”

“Of course,” Brighton replied. “Very pleasant to meet you, Doctor. I hope to see more of you at a later date.”

John smiled and took a few steps toward the door, then ducked behind a pillar. When he saw that the Brightons had moved on, he doubled back and made his way over to Sherlock. “Sorry to cut in,” he said to the couple attempting to talk to Sherlock. “Sherlock, they’re getting ready to serve dinner. Have you had your pill?”

Sherlock blinked. “My pill?”

“I think there’s something with cream sauce,” John hinted.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed as he understood. “Oh, my pill! No, sorry, John. I was just so frightfully interested in Sir Niall’s story about the Carnival party at the German embassy in Brazil, I forgot all about it.”

John smiled at Sir Niall and his wife. “Do excuse us,” he said, and steered Sherlock into a relatively unoccupied corner of the room. Sherlock immediately leaned his head against the wall.

“Sherlock,” John asked in a low voice, “are you all right?”

Sherlock did not answer for a moment. “It’s too loud,” he said. “I could strangle that damn quartet, except that the second violinist is playing a rather fine Guarneri, and it would be a shame to damage the instrument.”

“Mmm,” John said. “The quartet’s not the worst of it. I can barely hear the music over the people.”

“How are there so many boring people in the government, John? Look at them. Self-satisfied wankers, never bother to look beyond the tips of their own noses.”

“Not getting on with Sir Niall, then?”

Sherlock sighed. All of a sudden, he looked exhausted. He waved a hand vaguely in the general direction of the crowd. “John . . . that’s everybody I was at school with. Can you possibly understand?”

John hadn’t attended a public school, but it didn’t take a genius to guess at how an over-intelligent, poorly socialised child might have fared at a traditionalist boarding school. He nudged Sherlock’s foot with his own. Once he had Sherlock’s attention, he pointed out a random man across the room. “What about him, then?”

Sherlock followed John’s gaze and focused on the man for a second. “Unhappily married, from his posture. Ivory cufflinks, monogrammed, new, an anniversary gift from his wife, most likely, therefore married fourteen years. Keeps glancing at the waiter, but he hasn’t touched his champagne; not interested in the wine, more likely interested in the waiter, which would explain the unhappy marriage. Comes from an old family with status, wears a signet ring to show it, but less money than you’d expect, since his wife’s dress is at least four years out of date and far too tight in the bust. Been spending large sums on expensive pleasures, but the wife hasn’t caught on yet. Oh, and he went to Eton.”

John blinked. “Eton? I don’t follow.”

“The sneer he aims at Mycroft when he thinks Mycroft isn’t looking. Both Mycroft and I were Harrow boys, and I’ve seen plenty of that sort of look from other Eton students.”

“Ah. Well, then.” John offered a little smile, and was rewarded with a minute twitch of Sherlock’s mouth. “You got through six years of Harrow. You’ve only got another couple of hours here.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Speaking of Mycroft,” John said, glancing around for any sign of the man himself, “did you manage to get anything useful on Sir Niall?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I have no idea. I simply listened to him natter on. I couldn’t possibly guess what Mycroft might make of his conversation.”

“How will you know what to tell him?” John had been wondering much the same thing about his conversation with Jonathan Brighton.

“Won’t have to.” One side of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up. “Come on, John, surely you noticed.”

“Noticed?”

“Your pocket square. My boutonnière. Mycroft had them bugged. He’ll listen to everything we’ve heard and make his own decisions. Not my problem.”

John suppressed a giggle. “That’s a load off my mind. Thanks for that, at least. Feeling any better?"

“No. Well, a little.”

“Good. I think they really are about to serve dinner. Are you ready to brave the rubber chicken?”

Sherlock frowned. “Rubber chicken? How did you --?”

John smiled at him. “Because this is every boring medical conference awards dinner I’ve ever attended.”

Sherlock laughed at that, just as the footmen opened the doors to the State Dining Room. Disaster averted, John followed Sherlock to the table.


	3. The Art Of Negotiation

**3\. The Art Of Negotiation**

* * *

Sherlock slept until just past noon the day after the reception at Downing Street. John was happy to let him, partially because a flat with a sleeping Sherlock in it was a quiet flat, and partially because it was so painfully clear how much Sherlock had needed the peace after the evening’s social extravaganza. John took advantage of a rare quiet Sunday morning to sprawl on the sofa in his oldest, most comfortable clothes, drinking coffee and spreading the sections of the Sunday _Times_ all over the living room to be read at his leisure and not Sherlock’s demand. Briefly, he entertained the idea of writing in his blog, but decided against it, on the theory that there probably wasn’t much he could say about the reception without running afoul of some security restriction or other.

“Hoo-hoo!” There was a tap at the door, and John glanced up to see Mrs. Hudson.

“Hello, Mrs. Hudson,” he said, making sure to keep his voice low. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Oh, no, thank you, dear,” Mrs. Hudson replied. She glanced around the living room and through the kitchen door. “Sherlock’s still asleep, is he?”

John nodded. “He was pretty knackered when we got home last night.”

“Poor dear. He’s never been one for parties.” Mrs. Hudson aimed a fond smile in the general direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. “I won’t be a minute, don’t want to wake him. I just came to tell you that I got a lovely roast on special the other day, and I haven’t made a proper Sunday roast in ages, not since George . . . well, I haven’t had anyone to share it with, you know how it is, and there’s more than enough for two, or three if Sherlock wakes up . . .”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be lovely,” John said. “I’ll drop by about one o’clock, then? Bring Sherlock if he’s awake.”

“If he isn’t, I’ll make a plate for him to eat later,” Mrs. Hudson agreed. She patted John’s arm and went back downstairs. John resettled himself on the sofa and picked up the Travel section.

After a while, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, his high-pitched desperation of the night before replaced by a sort of drowsy contentment. He pulled his dressing gown tight around his body and looked around, blinking owlishly at the kitchen.

“Morning,” John said. “Or, afternoon, rather. How are you feeling?”

“Tea,” Sherlock replied.

“Certainly, your Highness.” But his words came out without malice. Sherlock gazed around the flat, almost as if he were checking to make sure that the place was still the same as when he had gone to bed. John got up from the couch and pushed good-naturedly past Sherlock into the kitchen. He glanced inside the kettle, carefully not wondering when that action had become automatic, and filled it. Sherlock watched the proceedings with numb interest.

“You feel up to a little more company today?” John asked.

Sherlock squinted at him. “Company?”

“Mrs. Hudson dropped by earlier, while you were still asleep, asked us down for Sunday dinner.”

“John, that’s not company. That’s Mrs. Hudson.” The smile on Sherlock’s face completely ruined the effect of the scorn in his voice.

John turned away to hide his own smile. “Good. That’s settled, then. Go get cleaned up, and I’ll make you a cup of tea before we go downstairs.” He took the box of tea bags down from the cupboard and waved it enticingly in front of Sherlock’s nose. To his great satisfaction, a flush of colour returned to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock turned and shuffled off to the bathroom without comment, and John hummed a little tune as he prepared mugs for tea.

* * *

Mycroft proved to be as good as his word. John had just settled down for a sandwich in the Princess Grace Hospital’s canteen the next day when the sound of officiously clicking heels commanded his attention. He looked up to see Mycroft’s assistant making a beeline for his table. She held out an envelope. “From Mr. Holmes.”

“Thank you.” John waited until she had turned around and left before opening the envelope. Inside was a short, handwritten note folded around a cheque.

_My deepest thanks. Your assistance at our little soirée was invaluable. Please accept this token of my gratitude._

M

The cheque was for twice the value of John’s hired dinner suit. For a moment, John wondered if he should be insulted that Mycroft had chosen to pay him seventy pounds for unwittingly spying on his own employees. But then he remembered Sherlock’s drawn expression as he had moved from an over-stimulating reception to an equally over-stimulating formal dinner, and he wondered if that seventy pounds might not in fact be more of an oblique apology instead. He decided to be gracious about his flatmate’s family. Part of the extra seventy pounds could go to a new set of pipettes for Sherlock, and the rest could pay for a really nice bottle of wine for John’s next dinner with Sarah.

* * *

One of the newer doctors on the Princess Grace staff made an error towards the end of the day, prescribing codeine to a patient who was currently on antidepressants. Fortunately, John had been the one to admit that patient and had spent a few moments chatting with her, and was therefore able to catch the mistake before any harm was done. But the paperwork that ensued was long and complicated, and John ended up leaving the hospital later than usual.

He hurried home, sniffed the air and did not detect anything particularly untoward, and took a few moments to appreciate Sherlock’s violin practice before heading upstairs to change. Sherlock had recently been learning a new Prokofiev sonata, and, to John’s semi-trained ear, it sounded as though he was beginning to get the hang of it. John changed into his jogging clothes and returned downstairs, making quick eye contact with Sherlock on the way out so that Sherlock would know that he had gone, at least until he encountered a challenging passage in the Prokofiev and deleted the information.

By the time John actually got to Regents Park, most of the children had been taken home, and the Zoo had already closed. Most of the other joggers were high-powered businessmen running off the stress of the day, and were firmly plugged into their mp3 players, unwilling to exchange friendly nods. The park was cold and quiet, and John decided that he would not mind leaving the Princess Grace at the end of the week when the woman he had been replacing returned from her honeymoon. He had missed the dog walkers and the tai chi classes.

Just past the Zoo, John heard the high-pitched squeals of a delighted child. Surprised to hear the sound so late in the day, he veered off the path and found a small playground where a young woman was pushing a small child on the swings. The pair seemed familiar, and after a moment, John recognized Dee and her young charge Georgie. He wondered what they were doing still out playing in the cold and dark, long after the other children had left, but they seemed happy, and John did not wish to disturb them. He returned to the path and picked up his pace, heading for home.

* * *

Someone had already picked up the post, he observed, and it had not been Sherlock, who had a tendency to leave anything he considered unimportant scattered haphazardly around the entrance hall. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson had gone upstairs to invite Sherlock for a cup of tea, as she did sometimes when he was becoming noisily frustrated with something, and had brought the post with her.

Unfortunately, the mysterious helper turned out to be Mycroft, who was sitting implacably in John’s armchair while Sherlock glowered at him. John plastered a smile across his face even as his runner’s high evaporated. He was not in the mood to deal with either Mycroft’s demands or Sherlock’s resulting bad temper before he had even had a chance to shower. Perhaps, if he stood very close to Mycroft and dripped sweat onto his suit, Mycroft would go away.

Mycroft appeared to read John’s intentions as he approached, rising smoothly to his feet for a handshake that put him conveniently out of harm’s way. “John,” he said. “How very nice to see you.”

John gritted his teeth. “Mycroft.”

“I’ve just been having a delightful visit with my brother.”

The waves of upset rolling off of Sherlock were so strong that John didn’t even have to turn around and look at him. “I’m sure. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson mentioned that the overhead light in her bathroom has burned out, and she can’t reach the fixture. You’re probably tall enough to do it.”

Sherlock was out of the chair and out of the flat in a flash. John decided that Mycroft probably didn’t need to know that Mrs. Hudson had mentioned the light bulb in passing over Sunday dinner the day before and had followed the remark by declaring her intention to go to the hardware shop and buy a new stepladder. He turned his blandest expression on Mycroft. “I got the cheque. Thank you.”

“But of course.” Mycroft hesitated for a moment, then plunged forward. “And I suppose I must thank you for removing Sherlock from the flat. I simply cannot make him see reason, but perhaps you might be more . . . amenable.”

“I just got back from a run. I will give you five minutes of amenable before I go and take a shower.”

Mycroft took the cue and did not sit down again. “Very well. I merely dropped by to observe that you and Sherlock appear to have made an . . . impression on certain of the Prime Minister’s other guests. In particular, Sir Niall Horsley and his wife, Lady Jane, would like to entertain the pair of you to tea on Wednesday, along with Jonathan and Francine Brighton. When you arrived, I had been attempting to impress upon my brother the importance of such social niceties. I wonder if you might have more success in that area.”

John dropped his false smile. “Not a chance. I’m not your regular spy, Mycroft, and neither is Sherlock. I’ll give you those extra seventy pounds back. I haven’t spent them yet.” He stepped aside and gestured Mycroft toward the door.

Mycroft sighed, and his posture stiffened a little from its previous attitude of studied relaxation. John wondered if this meant that Mycroft was about to tell him something honestly. “We haven’t much time,” Mycroft said after a moment. “There is a disagreement between certain factions about the possibility of Brighton’s appointment. For various reasons, I cannot be seen to be investigating him . . . but he may certainly be seen attempting to curry my favour by way of my brother.”

John closed his eyes and gained great satisfaction by imagining himself beating Mycroft about the head and shoulders with his own umbrella. “I’ll return your extra money in the morning,” he said. “You will not pay me to do your government spying.”

“The gathering of information,” and Mycroft stressed those words, “is Sherlock’s task. Your task, for which the money is your reward, is attending to my brother as he does so.”

John glared at Mycroft in silence for a few moments. “You’ve made your case,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on Sherlock if we go, because I live with him and I know what this will do to him and what he’ll need afterwards. But I’ll leave the decision about going or not going exactly where it belongs. With Sherlock. There. You’ve had your five minutes of amenable. I’m going to have a shower.”

He stood, stiff and unmoving, until Mycroft gave him a tight little smile and left the flat. John waited until he heard the front door open and close and the purr of a car pulling away before he went upstairs for his long-awaited shower. The hot water relaxed some of the resentment out of John. Once he had towelled himself dry and put on some clothes, he decided that he felt human enough to ring Sarah.

“Hello?” she said, and John rejoiced at hearing the voice of a normal human being.

“Sarah, it’s John Watson. I was wondering . . . I find myself with an unexpectedly free evening tomorrow, and I wonder if you might like to try that new Italian place that just opened up near Euston.”

“Ooh, I’ve heard about that! It sounds lovely. Will we need anything special? Flowers? Wine? Pepper spray and handcuffs?”

John laughed at that. “I’ll take care of the flowers and the wine,” he said. “And I may put in a call to Scotland Yard, see if they can come up with a nice distraction so that we can have an evening to ourselves.”

“Fantastic. I’ll be working until about seven . . . could you book the table and meet me at the surgery?”

“Of course. See you tomorrow.”

“All right.”

John ended the call with a satisfied punch of a button, and strolled downstairs to find Sherlock curled up in his chair. He seemed calmer than before, staring meditatively at a small pile of biscuits on one of Mrs. Hudson’s ancient china plates. “Better?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes off the biscuits. “Mycroft tried to enlist you in his little cause,” he said.

“Yes, he did. And I said no.”

Sherlock looked up at that. “You said . . .?”

“I said no. I won’t force you to go to tea with Sir Niall Horsley. I’ll go with you if you want to go and if you want me to come, but I’m leaving the choice up to you. And so will Mycroft.”

“I -- thank you, John.” Sherlock relaxed a little bit, though he could not keep the surprise from his voice.

“You’re a grown man, Sherlock, you can make your own decisions.” John laughed a little. “I think Mycroft probably forgets that sometimes, but then, he remembers you when you were still in nappies. So, what do you think?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t want to sit and have tea and make dull conversation with Sir Niall Horsely and his cronies. Certainly not because my brother told me to. But what if this is bigger than just Mycroft?”

He looked genuinely troubled, so much so that John could not find it in his heart to enjoy the sight of Sherlock Holmes being indecisive. Sherlock stared again at the biscuits, and John considered what might have affected him in the time that they had been apart. “What did Mrs. Hudson have to say?” he asked gently.

Sherlock waved his hands, as if he were trying to dismiss Mrs. Hudson’s words. “Oh, she went on about Mycroft wanting the best for the country, and if there was really something wrong with this Brighton, it was my duty to find out what, rubbish like that.”

“But?” John prompted.

“Mrs. Hudson doesn’t like Mycroft,” Sherlock said softly. “She never has. She disapproves of how he handles family affairs, and she thinks he should make more of himself, except on alternate Tuesdays when she thinks that he has too much power and not enough accountability.”

“Well, I’d not say she was wrong, exactly.”

That wrung a little smile out of Sherlock. “But the point, John. The point is that she doesn’t like him and doesn’t agree with him. Except on this. She thinks I should go.”

Carefully, John eased himself down into his armchair. “She trusts your judgement. Probably more than she trusts Mycroft’s.”

“Certainly more,” Sherlock said. “You’ll come along. Got to have my blogger to record my latest adventure in government probing.”

“Absolutely.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Then it’s settled. We’ll be taking tea with Sir Niall Horsley on Wednesday at five o’ clock. For Mrs. Hudson.”

“For Mrs. Hudson,” John agreed.


	4. Duty Of Care

**4\. Duty Of Care**

* * *

John arrived at the surgery just before seven the next evening, having pushed himself through his jog so as to have enough time to shower and to shave before changing into his sports coat. The receptionist smiled at him when he arrived. “Hello, John! Sarah said you’d be coming. She’s just finishing up.”

“Nice to see you, Janice,” John replied. “I’ll just wait out here for her, if that’s all right.”

“Of course. We’re just finishing up the paperwork for today.”

John settled down in the waiting room and picked up a four-month-old copy of _Hello_. A few final patients emerged from the exam area, and John nodded cordially in their general direction. After the patients had left, Janice disappeared into the exam area. When she returned, she smiled at John and reached for her coat. “Sarah’s in her office. You can go back and see her, if you like, you know where it is. I’m off home.”

“Cheers. Good night.”

John waited until Janice had left the building and locked the door behind her, and then went back into the exam area. As promised, he found Sarah clearing paperwork off her desk. She smiled when she saw him.

“John! Oh, it’s good to see you. I am really looking forward to dinner, after the day I’ve just had.”

John laughed. “Me, too. I’ll swap you patient stories over the antipasto.”

“I’m impressed that you managed to get yourself an evening off.”

“Yes, well.” John coughed a little. “You can thank my landlady for that. She very kindly decided that she really wanted a live demonstration of ‘a hundred and one simple chemistry experiments with things you have around the house,’ and it absolutely had to be tonight.”

Sarah’s eyes twinkled. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. When I popped in to say goodbye, her kitchen was covered in Diet Coke foam, and Sherlock was standing in the middle of it holding a packet of Mentos. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mrs. Hudson look quite so . . . gleeful before.”

That made Sarah laugh. “Well, good. We’ll all have a good time tonight. Just let me put this away.” She collated the papers into a binder and turned to set it on a shelf.

A faint banging noise startled them both. John and Sarah exchanged worried glances, then crept out of Sarah’s office. The banging seemed to be coming from the waiting area. Cautiously, John opened the door. Now he could hear the muffled, high-pitched cries of someone in distress outside, knocking frantically on the surgery’s locked door. Sarah hurried to open it, and a slim figure stumbled inside, struggling to maintain a grip on a convulsing child. “Please, help him,” she gasped, and thrust the child into John’s arms.

John stumbled back from the surprise, and eased the child to the floor. As he did so, he finally caught sight of the child’s face. “Oh, dear God,” he gasped. “Georgie?”

He looked up and saw that the young woman whom Sarah was now supporting was indeed Dee. Her face was ashen with fear, even more so than it had been when Georgie had tried to run into the street, and she nearly collapsed upon meeting John’s eyes.

“John Watson?” she squeaked. “From the park?”

John nodded. “I’m a doctor, Dee. I’ll take good care of Georgie.”

Sarah guided Dee to a chair. “Dee? When did the seizure start?”

Dee gulped back tears. “Just now. We were having our walk, and Georgie came over all strange, like he does just before . . . I tried to get us someplace quiet, but there just wasn’t time, and it wouldn’t stop, and I got so scared, and then I saw this place, and I picked him up and I ran . . .” Dee choked back a whimper.

“It’s all right, Georgie is safe now. John can take care of him.”

John had managed to unzip Georgie’s coat and noted with some relief that he wore a loose pullover beneath it. He placed one hand beneath Georgie’s head to cushion it, and felt his forehead with the other. There was no fever. He pushed a table aside so that Georgie could have room, and put his hand on the child’s stomach. “I think it’s slowing down,” he said. “Don’t want to move him just yet. Pillow and a blanket, please, Sarah?”

Sarah patted Dee on the shoulder and vanished into the exam area. John gave Dee his most reassuring smile. “Bit of luck all around, I’d say. Sarah was just closing the surgery for the day when you arrived, but you were quick about bringing him.”

Dee managed a faint smile at the praise and squirmed in her seat.

“Has this happened before?” John asked.

Dee nodded. “He’s got medicine for it,” she said. “But I ran out, and his mum hasn’t given me any more yet.” She wiggled again.

“Well, tell her to get the prescription refilled first thing tomorrow morning.” 

Sarah returned with a thin pillow and a blanket just as Georgie stopped jerking. John turned him onto his side and spread the blanket over his legs. Georgie relaxed into an exhausted sleep. John checked the carotid pulse and noted the steady rise and fall of Georgie’s chest. He estimated that the seizure had probably lasted a little over three minutes. “I think the worst of it’s over,” he said. “We just have to wait for him to recover.”

Dee shivered and scrubbed at the tears beginning to spill down her face. Sarah put an arm around her shoulders. “Georgie’s all right now, and John will take care of him. Why don’t we go into the back and have a cup of tea.” Dee sniffled a little, and Sarah helped her to her feet, turning around to mouth Break room to John. He nodded; it was exactly what he would have prescribed.

Georgie slept for about fifteen minutes. When he started to squirm and whimper, John took out his mobile and dialled Sarah’s. “He’s coming around. Better get Dee out here.”

Georgie spent the next five minutes whimpering nervously in Dee’s arms. When both he and Dee had calmed down, Sarah released them, pressing a small packet into Dee’s hand as they left.

“Anticonvulsant?” John asked.

Sarah nodded. “Mmm. And something else besides.” She ran her hands through her hair and then scrubbed them nervously over her face. “Oh, God, John, I’m so sorry. This was supposed to be a nice dinner, and now I’ve got more paperwork, and we won’t make it to the restaurant in time.”

John glanced at his watch. Sarah was right; there was no way to salvage the restaurant booking. He gave her a reassuring smile. “Well, that’s all right. It was for a good cause, and if the restaurant’s any good, it’ll still be there next time. We can still have dinner if you want. I’ll order takeaway while you get that paperwork started. Chinese okay?”

Sarah nodded. “Sweet and sour pork, hold the smugglers.”

* * *

Later, over steaming containers of rice, chicken, and pork in the break room, John decided that the evening had been well and truly saved. The food was delicious, Sarah was relaxed and laughing over John’s tales of the ongoing prank war between the nurses of two different departments at the Princess Grace, and Sherlock had not texted him once.

“So how do you know that girl?” Sarah asked. “The one who made all this possible.”

“I don’t know her, really. I’ve seen her and the boy in Regent’s Park a few times when I was out jogging. I only really spoke to them when I stopped the boy from running into traffic.”

“Do you know anything about her? She’s not the boy’s mum. Who is she?”

John shrugged. “Nanny, I suppose. I’d say au pair, but she sounds British to me. Not a local girl, I think. Why?”

Sarah pursed her lips. “I don’t know. There’s something . . . not quite right. Do you know, she was absolutely adamant that I not write out any prescriptions? Didn’t want to have any records made of her or Georgie. Wouldn’t even give a surname. You don’t know it, do you?”

“No.” John shook his head. Then a thought struck him. “Hang on a minute. Prescriptions? Plural?”

“I made her a cup of tea, but she didn’t drink it, just wiggled around like she couldn’t get comfortable,” Sarah said. “I asked if I could examine her while we waited for Georgie to come around. You know, I’m a doctor, you can trust me, we’re both girls here, that sort of thing.”

“Both girls here?”

“Turned out she had a raging yeast infection. Must have been driving her mad. Should have been seen long ago. Do you know what else I found? All sorts of little dotted scars on her thighs, like old cigarette burns, and a gold ring connecting her labia.”

There were some moments when John was downright grateful for all of the strange things that he had seen, both in Afghanistan and with Sherlock. He did not even blink as he put more pork and rice on his plate. “That’s . . . unusual.” 

“Yeah.” Sarah frowned. “Look, John, I know I’m no mad genius detective, but I know when something’s wrong, and this just doesn’t add up to me. This scared, sick girl, out after dark with a little boy having seizures, won’t give her full name . . . I don’t know. Something’s not right. I gave her some sample antifungals that I got when I went to that OB/GYN conference in Manchester, but I don’t know what else to do. I can’t really report her to Social Services with only a vague feeling to go on.”

John sighed. “I don’t suppose I could manage to introduce her to Sherlock. She’s pretty shy. I’ll keep an eye out for her as long as I’m jogging in the evenings.”

Sarah nodded, and a pensive silence fell over the table.

* * *

John did not forget about Dee entirely, but he soon had other things to occupy his mind. The next afternoon found him wearing a smart shirt and a tie, sitting in the back of a taxi with Sherlock sulking next to him. “Fine,” he said. “Be as stroppy as you like. Get it all out of your system now. But you are walking into that house with a smile on your face.”

Sherlock pulled his coat tight and ostentatiously turned his head to stare out the window.

“Look,” John said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you’re here to observe, right? They’ll give you much more to think about if you’re polite to them. For instance, they won’t throw you out on your arse. More flies with honey, right?”

Sherlock whipped his head around to glare at John. “Spare me the clichés of your tiny little mind, John.”

Before things could progress to an outright argument, the taxi drew to a stop in front of an elegant terraced house. John paid the driver and ushered Sherlock out of the cab. “All right,” he said. “It’ll only be an hour or two. Can we keep it together for just that long?”

Sherlock bared his teeth in a disturbing approximation of a smile. John sighed. It was probably the best he would get. He marched them up the front steps and rang the bell.

Jonathan and Francine Brighton had already arrived, and were sitting with Lady Jane Horsley. They rose to meet John and Sherlock as Sir Niall Horsley showed them into the sitting room. A young maid took their coats as Sir Niall introduced Sherlock to the Brightons.

“So you’re the power behind the power behind,” Jonathan Brighton said with a cordial grin as he shook Sherlock’s hand. “Sir Niall told me that you’ve grown into quite the influence on Mycroft.”

Sherlock blinked, but remembered to smile. “Sir Niall exaggerates.”

Brighton laughed. “Well, you’ve certainly grown up, at any rate.” He turned to John to explain. “I’ve met Sherlock before, you know, although I’m not surprised he’s forgotten. His mother brought him to Harrow for a visit before enrolling him, and I was the one to show them around. Knew who he was, of course, his brother had told me all about him, how clever he was for a kid, that sort of thing.”

“Well, good,” Lady Jane said. “Now that we all know each other, we can have tea. Kay!”

The maid materialized from wherever she had gone with the coats. “Yes, Lady Jane?”

“You can bring out the tea now.”

Kay bobbed at the knees a little and scurried off. Francine Brighton smiled after her. “Such a charming girl. So quiet and efficient.”

“It is still possible to get good help these days, despite what they say. You just have to know where to look.” Sir Niall smiled at his wife’s remark, and Jonathan Brighton nodded enthusiastically.

For his part, John found himself rather embarrassed at the idea of being served like that in a private home. A waiter in a restaurant was one thing, but the idea of a housemaid rubbed him the wrong way. Feeling outclassed and distinctly uncomfortable, he made sure to look Kay in the eye and thank her when she returned with the tea tray. For a moment, he thought he saw something flash in her eyes, but it vanished in an instant.

Lady Jane poured the tea into translucent china cups and passed milk, sugar, and biscuits around. John sipped his tea and listened to the conversation flowing around him, as Sir Niall lauded Brighton’s accomplishments in the Foreign Service. For his part, Brighton told some stories of his days at Harrow with his good friend Mycroft Holmes, and managed to extract a few similar stories from Sherlock. 

Sherlock told his stories with credible good grace, but John noted a distinct difference between his tales and Brighton’s. Where Brighton had told of the games he had played and the pranks he had pulled, Sherlock’s stories focussed on the antics of his classmates, never himself or any friends. The observation fit all too well with the little that John had guessed of Sherlock’s experiences of school. All of a sudden, he found that he did not want any more of the Horsleys’ tea or biscuits.

“Excuse me,” he said, causing five heads to turn in his direction, four of which appeared to have forgotten that he was still there. “Could someone point me to the loo?”

Sir Niall blinked, as if surprised to be reminded of human bodily functions, but recovered quickly. “Oh, staircase at the end of the hall, downstairs, turn right.”

“Thanks.”

John got up and followed the directions. At the bottom of the stairs, he found himself confronting two identical doors. Without really thinking about it, he opened the door on the right and fumbled for the light switch. 

When the lights flickered on, he was startled to see no toilet, but rather a large room equipped with what looked like medieval torture devices. He stared at the rack of whips and the St. Andrew’s cross for a moment in shock, before his brain kicked into gear and he recalled some research Sherlock had once done for a case. The room was a playroom devoted to elaborately and expensively accessorized sex.

Once the penny dropped, John laughed a little. It was good to know that a couple as uptight as the Horsleys did have a few human preferences after all. He flipped off the lights, closed the door, and tried the other one. To his great relief, it contained the promised toilet, and he slipped inside without further ado.


	5. A Modest Proposal

**5\. A Modest Proposal**

* * *

When John rejoined the party, it was to matching expressions of relief on the faces of both the Brightons and the Horsleys. Sir Niall gave him a wry half-smile. “John! Did you find everything you needed?”

“Yes, I did.” Despite his growing discomfort, John retained enough tact not to mention what else he’d found.

“Good, good.” Sir Niall glanced over at the sofa, where Sherlock sat wedged into a corner staring intently at the Brightons. “Sherlock was just telling us all about his . . . business endeavours. Fascinating stuff, really. I . . . don’t think I’ve ever heard anything quite like it.”

John blinked. “He does quite well for himself. It keeps him out of . . . well, no, it doesn’t keep him out of trouble, but it does at least limit the trouble he gets into.”

“And he’s got you to look after him,” Francine Brighton ventured. “That must be a weight off Mycroft’s mind.”

“As if it were ever there in the first place,” Jonathan Brighton snorted. “Look, let’s cut the crap. We all know why Sherlock is here.”

“Really?” Sherlock drawled. “Enlighten me.”

Brighton leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Well, it’s not exactly subtle, is it? Germany is a plum assignment, and Mycroft Holmes doesn’t want me to have it. I don’t know why, or what he has against me, or if he’s just that full of himself, but he wants me out. And he’s too high and mighty to do his own dirty work, so he’s sent little brother here to do it for him, ferret out some nasty little secret that he can use to prevent my appointment.”

An embarrassed silence settled over the room for a second. Then Sherlock laughed. “Well done,” he said. “As it happens, you’re absolutely right.”

Brighton sat back in surprised satisfaction. “Well, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“I don’t care whether or not you go to Germany,” Sherlock said. “I don’t care about your boring little political games, and I certainly don’t care what my brother thinks of you. Let’s not make this little gathering any more painfully drawn-out than it needs to be. Clearly, Mycroft thinks that you have dirty laundry. Tell me, and then we can leave.”

Sir Niall looked horrified at Sherlock’s bluntness, but John could not help noticing that Lady Jane seemed oddly eager.

Brighton smiled. “Do you know, I think I will tell you. What the hell. Just for the look on your face.”

The Horsleys gaped at Brighton in astonishment, and Francine Brighton looked positively ill. A muscle in Sherlock’s jaw twitched, but the rest of him remained perfectly still. John caught himself shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, getting ready to take whatever action might be needed to defuse the fallout from Brighton’s announcement.

Brighton grinned at his suddenly rapt audience, then fixed his eyes on Sherlock. “Mycroft’s told me all about you,” he said. “I’ll use small words. Ever heard of swingers’ clubs?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and his expression grew cold, but he said nothing.

“Of course you’d get the wrong idea,” Brighton scoffed. “It’s all completely consensual, you know. People pay good money to get in, some of them practically beg for referrals. Nothing but good, dirty fun. Date Night for everyone, with everyone. No shame in it at all, unless you’re Mycroft Holmes, bastion of English rectitude. That’s what we’re guilty of, Sherlock, and it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference to my qualifications for this posting. Tell your brother to chew on that.” He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared at Sherlock with defensive pride.

An awkward silence fell over the room. Not knowing where else to look, John looked at Sherlock, and found him completely shuttered, his arms wrapped around his body and his feet tucked as far under the sofa as they would go. He was clearly upset by the turn the conversation had taken, and John wracked his brain for a way to bring the party to an end without causing any more damage to the social atmosphere.

A discreet cough broke the silence, and everyone turned to see Kay standing in the doorway, looking as uncertain as anyone else. Lady Jane visibly pulled herself together, straightened her spine, and fixed her gaze on the maid. “Ah, Kay. Just in time. You can clear away the tea things now, I think.”

Kay hurried forward to do as she was told, and the gentle clanking of china and cutlery roused the others from their shocked stupor.

“Well,” John said. “This was a -- a lovely afternoon. Thank you so much for your hospitality, Sir Niall, Lady Jane. If you’ll excuse us, I’ve got, er, patient notes, and I’m sure Sherlock’s got something cooking in the --“

“All that Sherlock’s got cooking is a load of resentment,” Brighton said. “Resentment with an order of prudery on the side, just like his brother. You can tell they’re related.”

Sherlock dropped his head and then glared at Brighton from beneath his eyelashes. “I don’t give a toss about your little marital games,” he snarled.

“Mmm, I’m sure. It’s too bad I couldn’t invite you to our next party, you could come and see for yourself. Be a good way to loosen you up a little. But, alas,” Brighton’s smile grew wider, though it didn’t reach his eyes, “Swingles is a woman-friendly sort of place. We try to keep the numbers even. We don’t allow male guests in . . .” He glanced at John, “pairs.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, and there was a predatory smile on his face. “Well then,” he said. “Isn’t it a good thing that John’s got a girlfriend?”

* * *

Sherlock maintained strict radio silence in the taxi on the way home, which suited John fine, as it meant that he didn’t have to shout at Sherlock in the confines of a moving vehicle. He did allow himself to stew in a variety of uncharitable thoughts about his flatmate, not caring one bit whether or not Sherlock could read those thoughts in his face. As it happened, those few minutes of glorious, indulgent stewing were enough that John’s immediate impulse to shout had faded by the time the taxi pulled up in Baker Street. Sherlock was still lost in his own world, so John paid the driver and nudged Sherlock out of the cab. In the fading twilight, he could see Sherlock’s face set in an expression of stony misery. He sighed, and decided that their serious discussion of boundaries could wait a while longer.

Upstairs in their flat, Sherlock wandered around the sitting room, seemingly at a loss for something to do. Before he could decide to perforate any more of the walls with John’s pistol, John retrieved Sherlock’s old blue dressing gown from where it lay discarded next to the music stand.

“Heating’s on,” he said. “You can take that jacket off if you like.”

Sherlock shrugged out of his suit jacket. John draped it over Sherlock’s armchair and then wrapped the dressing gown around him. Sherlock did not make eye contact with him, but pulled the dressing gown tight. He stood still and silent for a moment, before shuffling off to his bedroom. John flopped down in his own chair and allowed himself to relax in front of some mindless imported sitcom.

It took nearly an hour for Sherlock to emerge from his bedroom. He looked crumpled and a bit puffy around the eyes, but John could not tell if he had cried or slept or done neither. Sherlock did not offer a word of explanation, but curled up on his armchair, still wrapped in his dressing gown, and watched John for a few moments.

John sighed. As usual, Sherlock was going to make him do most of the interpersonal work. He closed his eyes and realized that much of his immediate anger at Sherlock had drained away, leaving behind only weary emptiness. Well, he could do something about the emptiness, at least. It had been some time since the few biscuits he had choked down at the Horsleys’.

“Right,” he said. “I don’t think either of us is up for anything fancy tonight. Beans on toast?”

Sherlock shrugged.

John got up and went into the kitchen, glad of the distraction. His hands went through the motions of opening a tin of beans, putting bread into the toaster, and switching the kettle on, but his mind was occupied with plotting out the shape of the conversation they were rapidly running out of ways to avoid. When the food was ready, he put two plates and two mugs on a tray and carried it out to the sitting room. Sherlock accepted a plate and mug without a word. John sat down, took a sip of tea and a bite of beans, and waited until Sherlock gave in and sipped at his own tea.

“Right,” he said. “I don’t know whether this is a public school thing, or a Mycroft thing, or -- or just a Sherlock thing, but we’ve got to discuss it. I deserve to know why it is that I have an invitation to a posh swingers’ club party in my jacket pocket.”

“Because you’re the one with Sarah,” Sherlock said.

“And I’m going to have to be the one to explain to her why I’m inviting her to . . . God, to a swingers’ party.” John scrubbed his hand over his eyes and reached for his tea. “So please, Sherlock, please tell me that you have some good reason for this. Please.”

“Jonathan Brighton should not be appointed Her Majesty’s Ambassador to Germany,” Sherlock replied.

“Yes, I’d figured that out for myself, thanks. Jonathan Brighton is a first-class wanker, and I’m happy to tell Mycroft as much myself. What I don’t understand is why you insist on taking his ridiculous little offer -- or, rather, making me take it -- when you clearly can’t stand the man.”

Sherlock huffed. “He’s hiding something, something big. How can you have missed that, John? Haven’t I taught you anything about how to observe?”

John thought about Sherlock’s trapped, closed-off posture on Sir Niall Horsley’s sofa. “Oh, I’ve observed plenty.”

“Then not the right things.” Sherlock waved John’s words away. “Didn’t you see the look on Francine Brighton’s face? She almost fainted with relief. What woman is that relieved to hear her husband bragging about their sex life to strangers? Clearly she was expecting him to reveal something a lot worse than swinging, and I want to find out what that was. And,” he added softly, “I need you and Sarah to help me.”

“Hmm.” John took another bite of beans. “Why should we?”

Sherlock finally cracked a little smile. “Because Jonathan Brighton is a first-class wanker.”

John could not stifle a laugh. “Good enough for me, I suppose. I’ll talk to Sarah about it. But I’ll need your debit card.”

Sherlock looked up from where he had begun to investigate his food. “Hmm? Why?”

“Because the conversation that I’m going to have to have with Sarah will require a very large, very expensive bottle of wine. And it’s your case, so you’re going to buy it.”

Sherlock did not reply, but the tension drained from his frame. John allowed himself a small, secret smile, and turned his attention back to his own supper.

* * *

“A swingers’ club.”

John forced himself to keep smiling as Sarah’s eyebrows crawled up her forehead. “More wine?”

“A swingers’ club. You want to take me to a swingers’ club.”

Perhaps he should have brought flowers as well. “Well, dinner and the cinema can get a bit . . .” there was no other word available, “boring. After a while.”

Sarah blinked at him, her hand frozen around her wineglass. “We haven’t had a while, John. We’ve had a circus full of Chinese gangsters, domestic rows with Sherlock, medical emergencies, and lots and lots of takeaways of various nationalities. That isn’t a while.”

John worried at a loose thread on one of Sarah’s throw pillows. Broaching the subject at Sarah’s flat, in her familiar space, had seemed to be the best of several unattractive options, as it would allow her to throw him out if the request was too much. He wondered how close she was to exercising that option. “We could do dinner and the cinema first,” he murmured. “There’s that new film _Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief_. Supposed to be pretty good. Won some awards.”

“I’ve already seen it,” Sarah said. “Don’t change the subject.”

“Right. The subject.”

“This club.”

“Swingles.” John handed over the business card that Brighton had given him.

Sarah eyed it dubiously, as though it might leap from her hand and bite her on the nose at any moment. “Swingles,” she said. “What an awful name.”

“It is, come to think of it.” John clamped down ruthlessly on what he was sure was a mildly hysterical giggle trying to escape.

“This Mr. Brighton. Did he tell you . . . anything?” Sarah gestured vaguely with her hands. “Like . . . how the club works? Do you just walk in and head into an orgy or something?”

“Er, no. Not exactly.” John gave silent thanks that he had thought to do some Internet research before calling Sarah. “It’s a party, sort of. Drinks, that sort of thing. Except that, well, there are couples there looking for, er, temporary guests to the relationship. I suppose.”

“Temporary guests?”

“Look, Brighton assured me that it’s all meant to be woman-friendly. You’re allowed to say no, and they have to respect that. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. He said that lots of couples just mingle and . . . observe on their first visit. I mean, I suppose you can do more if you want to. He said there are special rooms.”

Sarah pursed her lips. “Sherlock put you up to this, didn’t he?”

John nodded.

“I thought so. ‘Temporary guests to the relationship.’” Sarah laughed a little. “So that’s all he wants, is it? For us just to observe?”

“Yeah. Mingle a little, get to know people. He thinks there’s something off about the club, wants us to take a look around and see if we notice anything.”

“As if I’d notice anything particularly out of the ordinary at a swingers’ club.” Sarah turned the card over in her hand and read the note that Brighton had scrawled on the back, inviting them to the next Swingles party that Saturday night. She sighed, and shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but . . . all right. I’ll go with you.”

John blinked. “You will?”

“Yes. I mean . . . well, really, what better chance will I ever have to see a place like this?” Sarah smiled. “If I didn’t go, I might die of curiosity alone. I mean, the last evening out that Sherlock arranged for us was extraordinary and entertaining, you have to admit.”

“Oh, yeah,” John said. “Right up until it turned into assault, kidnapping, and attempted murder.”

Sarah swatted him lightly on the hand. “Exactly. Which is the other reason I’m going to go with you. Someone needs to be there to help you when Sherlock gets in over his head.”

John gave a wry laugh and poured more of the excellent wine.


	6. Swing Shift

**6\. Swing Shift**

* * *

John tried to whistle a jaunty tune as he straightened his tie in the mirror, but his mouth was too dry, and he gave up after a few attempts. He checked his teeth for stray remnants of food, and then huffed discreetly into his hand to check his breath. To his grim amusement, he noted that there was no trace of a tremor in his left hand. Finally, satisfied that he was as presentable as he could possibly be in a horrible purplish-brown sports coat, he made his way downstairs.

“That jacket really is awful,” Sherlock said. “I’m going to make Mycroft get you a new one along with the dinner suit.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Of course, Sherlock had decided to dress elegantly in black trousers and a black shirt. “You look like an assassin.”

“Waiter,” Sherlock corrected him. “If I’m caught, I’m just a new waiter at the club who’s got a bit turned around.”

John considered pointing out that Sherlock’s outfit clearly cost more than most club waiters made in a month, but the doorbell rang before he could get a word out. “That’ll be our date,” he said. “Be nice to her. She’s the reason we can do this.”

He headed down the stairs with Sherlock close behind, and opened the door. Sarah was standing there, her coat open to reveal a leopard-print bustier, a black miniskirt, and elegant heels. To complete the picture, she carried a small black handbag of shining patent leather. John could not help whistling when he saw her, though a small part of his brain was mildly annoyed that this was when his ability to whistle had decided to return.

Sarah smiled. “Figured I might as well look the part.”

“And how.”

“Fine, fine, you look fine,” Sherlock said, trying to edge past them to hail a taxi. Sarah stopped him with a freshly manicured hand planted firmly on his chest.

“Wait,” she said. “Before we leave, there will be rules.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to object, but John glared at him, and he subsided.

“Thank you,” Sarah said. “First rule: We are not taking a taxi. I’ve borrowed my sister’s car, and I will be driving. Transportation will be under my control. Second rule: mobiles will remain on at all times, and you will answer them. Both of you. Third rule: We need some sort of signal if one of us gets into an uncomfortable situation or needs to talk. How about this?” She reached up and tucked her hair behind her ear. John ran his hand through his own hair in response. After receiving two prodding glances, Sherlock did the same.

“Excellent,” Sarah said. “Fourth rule: John, you and I will check in with each other at regular intervals. If we get too separated, we phone each other. Got that?”

John and Sherlock both nodded.

“Good. All right, I’m parked outside. Let’s go.”

Sarah’s sister’s car was not large, and John winced as Sherlock folded himself into the back seat. Had there not been a specific plan, he would have given Sherlock the front passenger seat, but as it was, Sarah would drop Sherlock off around the corner from Swingles so that he could investigate the back entrance, and then she and John would arrive at the club as a couple. John turned around to make sure that Sherlock had his seat belt on. Then he read off the club’s address from the card, and Sarah programmed it into the car’s GPS. She glanced at John, took a deep breath, and turned the key in the ignition.

* * *

They dropped Sherlock off as arranged, and John watched as he disappeared into the shadows. As soon as Sherlock vanished from sight, John sent him a quick text. 

_Just testing. Mobile on silent? -- JW_

His own mobile vibrated a few seconds later.

_As requested. -- SH_

So far, the plan was on track. Sarah drove them down a side street until she found a place to park. She paused to tidy her hair in the rear-view mirror, and then took John’s arm. John fingered the invitation in the pocket of his sports coat, and they set off for Swingles.

* * *

The insistent pulse of dance music drew them through a pair of doors to a plush, dimly lit nightclub. The patrons mingled in small groups, some sitting at the bar or on sofas, others gathered around tables. John thought he could see a dance floor just beyond a doorway draped with gauze. A shift at his side caught his attention, and he turned to see Sarah swaying to the beat of the music, an intrigued smile on her face. She caught his eye and giggled a little. “Wow,” she said.

“Wow is right.” A tall woman with a riot of dark curls and a broad smile came to greet them. “I’m Claire. I don’t think I’ve seen your faces around here before.”

“Er, well, no,” John said, trying not to stare too obviously at Claire, whose dress appeared to be made of red sequins and unexpected flashes of skin. He fumbled in his pocket and produced the card. “An, um, acquaintance of mine, Jonathan Brighton, mentioned this place, uh, said we should, um, check it out.”

Claire took the card and examined the invitation written on the back. “Jonathan, of course. Welcome to Swingles. Can I start you off with a drink . . .?”

“John!” Brighton emerged from the crowd, his diplomatic camaraderie fully intact. He shook John’s hand as if they were warm acquaintances. “And you must be the lovely Sarah. John’s told us . . . well, not nearly enough about you.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Sarah extended her hand, and Brighton took it and placed a kiss on the knuckles. Sarah blushed, but did not pull her hand away.

“First time at a place like this?” Claire asked. John and Sarah glanced at each other, and that glance was all that Claire needed. She laughed a little, in a friendly way. “Well, I think you’ll enjoy it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, and a lot of couples spend their first visit just watching and getting to know the others. But if you do find yourself wanting to do more, all you have to do is ask.”

John smiled. “That sounds great.”

Brighton caressed Sarah’s hand with his thumb. “I don’t know a thing about you except that John’s got excellent taste. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure,” Sarah replied.

Brighton escorted her to the bar. John took an instinctive step after them, but a hand on his arm stopped him. He turned his head to see a tall ginger man looking at him with bright blue eyes and an appreciative smile.

“I’m Peter. I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“John. This is my first visit.”

“I figured.” Peter clapped John on the shoulder. “Now that your lovely lady has found herself a friend, how about something for the rest of us? You must meet my wife.”

John actually laughed at that. “Not the usual context for that line.”

Peter smiled and shrugged acknowledgement. “No, it isn’t, is it?” He winked at John and gestured with his head at a sofa on the other side of the room where a blonde in a blue cocktail dress crossed her legs at them. “But that’s the thing of it. Ann spotted you and wants to meet you, and I get to invite you. So, help me make my wife happy?"

“Let’s go,” John said.

He followed Peter through the crowd to the sofa where Ann sat. When they approached, Ann stood up and kissed Peter, and then ran her hand over John’s shoulder. “You’re new here, aren’t you?” she asked. “I’m glad Pete was able to grab you before someone else did. I’m Ann.”

“John. Um . . . pleased to meet you.”

“Oh, not half as pleased as I am to meet you.” Ann sat back down on the sofa and patted the spot next to her. “Please, join us. How about a drink?”

John took the offered seat, and was not at all surprised when Peter sat down on his other side, the three of them pressed cosily against each other. “Red wine?” he suggested.

Peter raised his hand to signal a waiter, and Ann leaned against John’s arm, accidentally putting a little too much pressure at just the wrong angle on his bad shoulder. John twitched, and Ann immediately sat up again. “Oh, I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” John said. “Got shot in Afghanistan, and it still twinges sometimes.”

“Afghanistan?” Peter said. “Huh. I’ve got a nephew in Iraq right now. Bloody awful mess. Glad you’re out of it.”

The waiter arrived, with John’s wine and cocktails for Peter and Ann. “I’ll drink to that,” John said, raising his glass, and his companions were once again all smiles.

“To a new life,” Peter said.

“And perhaps a new lifestyle,” Ann added.

They clinked their glasses against his and drank. John took a sip of his wine and considered his surroundings. The club was as tasteful as any he’d ever seen, filled with the sexual energy of couples engaging enthusiastically in various degrees of intimacy that reminded John of some of the parties he’d attended as a teenager. In fact, he realized, Swingles reminded him a great deal of what his sixteen-year-old self had imagined adulthood would be like. The thought made him smile.

“Coming around to it, are you?” Ann said.

“Don’t worry,” Peter added. “The first time is always a little overwhelming. But when you come back, you realize just how liberating it can be.”

“I can see that,” John said, trying not to stare too obviously at the couples around them. “I never really guessed how a place like this could be. How it could . . . well, work. You’re not jealous?” he asked Peter.

Peter laughed and shook his head. “It’s not like that. We have rules. I’d get jealous if Ann went behind my back or something. But this . . . we do it together, we only do what we both want to do. Ann chooses partners, but I get to agree to them.”

John took another glance at Peter and noticed a spark of frank interest in the man’s eyes. He had spent too much time in the Army and with Sherlock to let that bother him. “Jonathan didn’t say much about that aspect.”

Peter and Ann locked eyes briefly. “Jonathan invited you?” Ann asked.

“Yes, he did. Said we should check the place out. Do you know him?”

“Well, mostly Francine,” Ann said. “We’ve played with her a few times, but mostly to chat. She likes a good cuddle on the sofa sometimes.” As if on cue, Peter hitched himself a little closer to John.

“We take care of her when Jonathan’s off with those friends of his,” Peter said. “What’s his name, that bloke with the nose?”

“Niall. And Jane, that’s his wife. Francine doesn’t like playing with them, so we take her until they get back.”

“Ah.” John suspected that, had he actually been Brighton’s friend, he would have just heard far too much information. As it was, however, he was glad of any little scrap that Sherlock could take to Mycroft in hopes of finishing this business.

Ann and Peter clearly had some experience at making newcomers to the club feel comfortable, and they pressed close to John and regaled him with stories. John sat back and sipped at his wine, allowing their conversation to flow over him. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it might be like to come to Swingles without an exterior agenda. Would Sarah agree to it? Just as the thought crossed his mind, he spotted Sarah standing in a doorway. She turned, caught his eye, and then looked away as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

John waited for the first appropriate pause in the conversation, and laid his hand on Ann’s arm. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It was lovely to meet you --” he glanced at Peter, “both of you -- but I have to go check in with Sarah. We agreed.”

“Of course,” Peter said. “Start out with good habits, that’s the way to do it.”

“I only got a little glimpse of her,” Ann added, “but she’s lovely. Feel free to bring her over and introduce her later.”

“I’ll mention it.” John set his glass down on a table and made his way over to where Sarah was waiting for him, a mostly full cocktail glass in hand.

“Enjoying the drink?” he asked with a wry smile.

Sarah looked startled for a moment, and then smiled. “God, no, it’s awful!” she said. “Mr. Brighton offered to buy me something, so I asked for a White Russian. I got almost a full glass of vodka with just enough Kahlúa and milk to colour it a bit. It’s not a White Russian, it’s Ivan the Terrible!”

John laughed. “And yet you still have it.”

“Oh, it’s a terrible drink, but it’s a wonderful prop. I can chat with men who don’t offer to buy me endless drinks, because I’ve already got one.”

“Point. Speaking of which,” John coughed a little. “I’ve, er, made some new friends, who’d be, um, happy to meet you. If you wanted.” He directed Sarah’s attention to the sofa where Peter and Ann sat entertaining another couple. Ann caught their eye and nudged Peter, and they both waved. Sarah gave a little wave back.

“So,” John said. “Have you, um, met anyone interesting?”

“Lots. Especially once I was able to shake Jonathan Brighton. Why didn’t you tell me the man was such a first-class wanker?”

“I’ll add your assessment to the list. Who else did you talk to?”

Sarah’s face grew unreadable. “I ran into his wife Francine crying in the Ladies. It’s astonishing what people are willing to tell doctors, even strangers they meet in the loo.”

“Well, that’s one of my lifelong questions nearly answered.” Even this attempt at levity could not suppress the dread that coiled in John’s stomach. “What did Mrs. Brighton have to say?”

“This place is only partly a swingers’ club. Has anyone mentioned the back room to you?”

John nodded. “Ann and Peter said that they sometimes entertain Francine Brighton while her husband uses it. They said she doesn’t like it.”

“Well, it’s not really a back room. I think it’s some sort of secondary business. It’s a VIP area; you have to be a special member to get in. I don’t think most of the people out here know much about it. Francine wouldn’t tell me very much, but just thinking about it alarmed her.”

A cold wave of shock flowed over John. “Sherlock went down there to investigate.”

“Have you heard from him? Maybe we should check in.”

“Good idea.” John surreptitiously pulled his mobile from his pocket. “Start heading over to the back room. I’ll follow at a distance. If we get stopped, we’re two new members who’ve got turned around looking for the loo.”

Sarah slipped away into the crowd, Ivan the Terrible still clutched firmly in her hand. John paused to dial Sherlock’s number, and then crept after her, avoiding making eye contact with any of the other club members. After a few rings, the call went to Sherlock’s terse voicemail message. John put the mobile away and caught up to Sarah.

“He’s not answering.”

She pulled aside a curtain of streamers to reveal a featureless black door. “I think this is the way in. What do you want to do?”

“Let’s try it.”

John glanced around to ensure that everyone’s attention was directed elsewhere. He pushed softly at the door. When no alarm sounded, he held it open just enough for Sarah to slip through, and then followed her. The noise and colour of the club gave way to a drab black hallway lit only by the ambient glow from a room at the bottom of a flight of stairs. Raised voices and the sounds of a struggle emanated from the stairwell. John groped his way to the stairs and started down, with Sarah following close behind.


	7. Lemon Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note: I have heard of this magical thing called NHS, and I bow down before it. But the Princess Grace Hospital is a private hospital, and I guess you do have to pay for those. Right there on [their website](http://www.theprincessgracehospital.com/), they tell you that you can walk into their Urgent Care Centre, and you will be charged £100 for it (I guess it's the British way of making sure that Americans feel comfortable receiving emergency care in London). The Urgent Care Centre also closes ridiculously early, which would seem to kind of defeat the purpose, but what do I know? The advantage is that the Princess Grace has the equipment needed.

**7\. Lemon Tree**

* * *

Spurred on by the sounds of thumps and grunts, John hurtled to the foot of the stairs, his hand reaching halfway around his back of its own accord before he recalled that he had left his pistol locked away at home. Instead, he burst entirely unarmed into a dim room lit by a single weak bulb. Its illumination was barely enough to reveal the shapes of three men surrounding Sherlock, who was lying on the floor, kicking feebly, his hands clawing at his throat in a frantic effort to loosen the rope that one of the men was twisting around his neck.

“Stop it!” John called, in the voice he had used on trainee medics about to do something foolish. “I warn you, I am a doctor, and I am also a soldier.”

Sherlock’s assailants paused, glancing at each other. Freed from their attentions, Sherlock went limp on the floor, his gasps for air loud in the sudden silence. After a moment, Sarah gave a little snort and pushed past John.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said. “Listen, John’s a good man, but he’s terrible at threats. He means that if you don’t leave Sherlock alone, he will kill you all and make it look like an accident.”

One of the men turned to glare at them. “Who are you? You’re not on the list.” He advanced toward them. Sarah took a reflexive step backwards and then splashed Ivan the Terrible in his face. The smell of coffee and vodka filled the air, and John took advantage of the man’s momentary shock to knock him down with the heel of his hand against the man’s jaw.

The other two men exchanged a look and fled into the darkness. John’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he spied a cricket bat propped against a desk. He seized it, and the man he had knocked down struggled to his feet and stumbled after his companions. As he fled, Sherlock pushed himself to his knees and tried to grab him, but missed. He doubled over coughing. The wounded man vanished into the darkness, and a door slammed shut.

John dropped the cricket bat and hurried to Sherlock’s side. Sarah had already untwisted the rope from around Sherlock’s neck and was working on his scarf. John opened Sherlock’s coat and then unbuttoned his shirt to his chest as Sherlock took great gasping breaths.

“Light,” John muttered. “I need more light.”

“Torch,” Sherlock wheezed. “Dropped it. Over there.” He gestured vaguely with one hand.

Sarah handed Sherlock’s scarf to John and went in search of the lost torch. John peered at Sherlock’s throat. Even in the dim light, he could see a ring of bruises, scratches, and abrasions around Sherlock’s neck, rendering the carotid pulse inaccessible. He folded the scarf into a rough square and set it on the ground, and then nudged Sherlock’s shoulder. “Lie down, on the scarf here.”

He eased Sherlock down onto his back, picked up his wrist, and found the radial pulse. It was strong, but fast, probably from adrenaline. Sarah emerged from the darkness and pressed a torch into his hand. “Found it.”

“Thanks.” John shone the light on Sherlock. “Ligature abrasions and scratch marks,” he muttered. He aimed the beam at Sherlock’s hands, revealing spots of blood on his fingernails. “Defensive. Well done you. Going to be a bit bright now.” He flashed the light in Sherlock’s eyes, which were red and watery. “Conjunctival petechiae.” He sighed and reached into his jacket pocket for his mobile. “You need hospital.”

Sherlock grabbed his wrist. “No,” he gasped. “Find . . . find them. Men.”

“Sherlock, hush.”

“No. Listen. This business. It’s . . .” Sherlock’s words dissolved in a fit of coughing. John grasped his shoulder to steady him.

“Sherlock. I want to hear it. I really do. But I also want to hear all the other deductions you’re going to make, on all the cases you’ll work after this one, and I won’t hear those if you die because your throat swells closed from a broken hyoid bone. Let’s get you to hospital. You can tell us everything there.”

Sarah sat back on her heels. “Do you want to call an ambulance or just bring him ourselves?”

John pressed his lips together for a moment. “This time of night, on a Saturday, an ambulance will take a while to get here. He’s conscious and breathing, with a strong pulse. I think we can transport him. I’d like him to have an MRI, if possible, and I think I know where. Can you bring the car around? I’ll make some calls.”

Sherlock gestured in the direction his assailants had fled. “Back door.”

Sarah nodded, and got up and left. John opened his mobile and punched in a number. “It’s a good thing you were efficient about getting attacked,” he told Sherlock. “We should be able to get you there before they close.” He smiled as the familiar voice of the receptionist at the Urgent Care Centre of the Princess Grace Hospital came over the line.

“Hello, Lucy,” he said. “It’s John Watson.”

“Oh, hello, John,” the receptionist said. “Is there a problem? Your last shift was yesterday.”

“Yeah, no, it’s not about that. Actually, I need a favour, if it’s not too much trouble. It’s just that I’ll be bringing in a friend who’s been assaulted. Sherlock Holmes, male, age thirty-six, someone tried to strangle him.”

“How’s he doing now?” Lucy asked.

John glanced over at Sherlock. “Conscious and breathing, though not easily. I think he should have an MRI. Can you please get someone to call down to Radiology and get a request processing?”

“I can ask,” Lucy replied. “Are you all right, though? You said it was an assault.”

“Yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry. Can you get that appointment going?”

He heard the clicking of computer keys. “I’ve got the forms called up. When can you get here?”

The back door opened, and Sarah entered. She waved her car keys at John. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“The Princess Grace can take him. How soon can we get there?”

Sarah considered for a moment. “Ten, fifteen minutes?”

John nodded and turned his attention back to the call. “Lucy, let’s say fifteen or twenty minutes, just to be on the safe side.”

“All right. We’ll be expecting you.”

John ended the call and put his mobile away, then turned to Sherlock. “We’re going to take you to the Princess Grace and get you looked over. Do you think you can get up?” He slid an arm beneath Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sarah took Sherlock’s arm. Together, they helped him to his feet and supported him between them as they led him out to the car.

“Business, down here,” Sherlock murmured. “Illegal.”

“Understood,” John said, as he and Sarah manoeuvred Sherlock into the front passenger seat of the car. “I’ll call Lestrade, have him meet us there. Just relax now.”

* * *

John gave silent thanks that the doctor in charge of the Urgent Care Centre that evening was Maureen Dennison, with whom he had shared several memorable shifts. Dr. Dennison nodded to them as they arrived, and gestured them to the waiting area. Sarah sat with Sherlock as John filled out registration forms. He decided on the spur of the moment to direct any fees above and beyond what NHS would cover to Mycroft, as he considered that it was Mycroft’s fault that Sherlock had been in harm’s way in the first place.

After a while, a nurse appeared. “Sherlock Holmes?”

John eased Sherlock to his feet. Sarah took his coat and scarf. “I’ll keep these and wait for Lestrade,” she said.

The nurse took John and Sherlock to a curtained bay, and John helped Sherlock onto the exam bed. The nurse looked at Sherlock’s neck and clucked sympathetically at the abrasions. “Oh, that’s not pretty. Are you in pain?” She wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock glanced at John, and then nodded. “Headache,” he rasped. “Throat hurts.”

“All right. BP looks a bit elevated. Let me get your pulse, and then I’ll get someone in to see you.” Sherlock was quiet as she took his wrist, which John attributed to his sore throat. After she was done, the nurse picked up Sherlock’s chart. “Just to confirm, you requested an MRI, Dr. Watson?”

John nodded, and the nurse left. Sherlock turned onto his side, twisting his face away from the overhead light. Neither he nor John spoke for a few minutes. The curtain surrounding the exam area twitched aside, and Lestrade appeared, escorting Sarah and the nurse who had just examined Sherlock, and who now carried a camera and a ruler. Sherlock groaned and struggled to sit up as Lestrade approached him.

“Christ, what did they do to you?” Lestrade asked, peering at Sherlock’s throat.

“Why . . . can’t you ask . . . the right questions?” Sherlock asked.

“Tried to strangle the life out of him,” John said.

“Well, if we’ve got a few minutes, let’s start documenting those injuries,” Lestrade told the nurse.

“Waste of time.” Sherlock coughed, and flinched as the camera flashed in his face. “Should be asking . . . who, not what.”

“Not a waste of time if I can add assaulting you to the charges,” Lestrade countered. “Besides, I’ve got a pretty good idea of who. Been having a chat with Dr. Sawyer here.”

“And I’ve had an interesting evening of my own,” Sarah put in. “You’re going to sit and let the nurse photograph your injuries, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

John smiled. “Better listen to her, Sherlock. She can go places you can’t.”

“It’s astonishing what you can hear in the ladies’ loo,” Sarah said, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. “Sometimes, women like to talk about men where men can’t hear. Like Francine Brighton, who just had to tell someone how fed up she’d become with her husband’s outside activity.”

“See, that’s the bit that I don’t understand,” Lestrade said. “This conversation happened in a swingers’ club, right? Where this couple were regular members?”

“That conversation, yes,” Sarah replied. “But that’s not where we found Sherlock.”

“The club is . . . a front,” Sherlock murmured. “Legitimate, but not . . . the primary business. Downstairs is . . . real money source. Ledgers. Membership rolls. Another club.” He paused for breath, and the nurse took advantage of the opportunity to take close shots of the wounds on his throat.

“Trafficking,” Sherlock said after a while. “Girls. Private sales to . . . valued members.”

“Dear God,” Lestrade said, wiping his hand over his face. “And you managed to, what, stumble into the middle of it?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Do I even want to know how you got involved in the first place?”

Sherlock managed a wry smile. “Dear . . . caring Mycroft.”

Lestrade sighed. “I am seriously considering tracking your brother down and knocking some sense into him.”

John laughed. “You’ll have to wait your turn. I get first go at him.”

“Hey, what happened to Do No Harm?”

“Oh, that’s not harm. It’s a favour to normal people everywhere.”

“Point.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and swatted at the nurse, who had finished her documentation and was trying to clean the abrasions on his throat. The curtain was pulled aside to reveal a man in a black uniform with a wheelchair. “Sherlock Holmes, to Radiology?” he asked.

“I can walk,” Sherlock grumbled as John helped him up.

“Well, don’t tell anyone. This is a hospital, they’ve got an image to maintain.” John helped Sherlock settle into the wheelchair. “This’ll be a while,” he said.

Lestrade nodded. “Right. I’ll get a team looking over this trafficking club, and I’ll call when we’ve got something useable. Can I drop you anywhere, Dr. Sawyer?”

“I’ll wait here, thanks,” Sarah said. “Hang onto their things.”

“Thanks,” John said. He turned to Sherlock as they set off. “Have you ever had an MRI before?” Sherlock shook his head. “Well, here’s what’s going to happen.”

* * *

The scan took about forty minutes, by John’s estimation, and the radiographer let John sit in the booth with her. Radiology had never been John’s specialty, but he had done enough emergency work that he could follow the scans without difficulty. He didn’t even try to hide his relief when the scan was over and he helped Sherlock back into the wheelchair.

“I’ll live?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

John smiled, glad to see Sherlock’s default haughtiness reasserting itself again. “Unofficially, yes. They’ll have to get a radiologist to look at the scans, but, yes, I think you’ll be fine. You’re very lucky, you know.”

“Not . . . luck. Just sensible . . . enough to maintain . . . an Army doctor.”

“Yes, you’re very clever. Now, hush. Rest your throat so you can tell Mycroft off later.”

“After . . . you and Lestrade . . . have punched him?”

“Exactly.”

* * *

Sarah was waiting for them back in Urgent Care, still holding Sherlock’s coat and scarf. Sherlock had been put into a hospital gown for the MRI, and he began to shiver after a few minutes. Sarah draped the coat over him, and he curled up beneath its warmth. “Try to nap a little,” John told him. “It’ll be a while before the doctor gets here.”

In fact, it took a little over an hour. The doctor who eventually turned up was a pleasant-looking woman whom John had not met before. “Sherlock Holmes?” she asked. Sherlock stirred and blinked at her.

The doctor smiled. “I’m Dr. Moore. How are you feeling?”

“Bored. Everyone . . . asks stupid questions. Too much . . . noise. Throat hurts.”

“Mmm.” Dr. Moore peered at Sherlock’s neck, and then used a light, a tongue depressor and a commanding tone to look inside his throat. “All right, the scan says your hyoid bone is intact,” she said, “and that’s a good sign. Can you swallow?”

Sherlock demonstrated, wincing a little as he did so.

Dr. Moore looked down his throat again, and then glanced over her notes. “We’ve been discussing the case,” she told them. “Specifically, whether or not to admit you overnight for observation. I think you’re basically fine, but strangulation injuries can worsen over time. It’d be a precaution.”

“I want . . . to go home,” Sherlock said. “John . . . perfectly competent.”

“Dr. John Watson, hi.” John held out his hand. “I’m his flatmate. I’ve done both GP and emergency work, some of it in the Army.”

Dr. Moore looked interested. “That’s a thought. I’d feel better if you had backup, though, Dr. Watson. If anything went wrong and you needed to come back in a hurry.”

“I could help,” Sarah said. “Dr. Sarah Sawyer, GP. I could stay at least until morning. And I’ve got my sister’s car with me.”

“We live a few minutes away, on Baker Street,” John added. “We could be back here in five minutes if there were a problem.”

Dr. Moore pursed her lips. She glanced at her notes again, and looked Sherlock over. “Well,” she said at last, “I’ve always been a great believer in paying attention to psychological recovery as well as physical recovery. If you’ll both agree to look after him and bring him right back if there’s any problem . . .” She handed Sherlock the discharge forms. Sherlock signed them, and Dr. Moore gave John her card and left.

Sarah got up and set the pile of Sherlock’s clothes on the exam bed at his feet. “I’ll go bring the car around while you get dressed.”

* * *

It was late enough that the streets were empty, and all three of them were exhausted. After they arrived at the flat, John escorted Sherlock to his bedroom and deposited him on the bed. He removed Sherlock’s shoes, and Sherlock curled up beneath the covers.

“Try to get some sleep,” John said. “I’m going to make up a bed on the sofa, and Sarah or I will come in and check on you every half hour or so. Sleep as long as you want.”

“John . . .” Sherlock murmured.

“Hush. You did well tonight. Mrs. Hudson will be proud of you.”

He patted Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock finally relaxed into sleep.


	8. Turn Down Day

**8\. Turn Down Day**

* * *

After a night that consisted less of sleep than of a series of naps linked by trips downstairs to monitor Sherlock’s breathing and pulse, John decided that the morning would be a slow and leisurely one. So, when he woke from his latest stretch of sleep to find the Sunday morning sunlight flooding his bedroom, he turned over to glance at the clock on his bedside table. Sherlock was not due for another check for a few minutes, so John pulled the duvet over his head and luxuriated in the warm, soft darkness. However, when the alarm sounded, he found himself not only reluctantly awake, but hungry as well.

He stumbled downstairs to Sherlock’s bedroom as quietly as he could, going through the kitchen door so as not to disturb Sarah on the sofa. Sherlock had managed to roll himself into the covers like a burrito and then squirm halfway out of the cocoon. He cracked one eye open when John sat down on the edge of the bed next to him, but only mumbled something unintelligible. John blew on his stethoscope to warm it and slipped it beneath Sherlock’s shirt as gently as he could, moving it around his back to listen to the rush of air moving through his lungs. After he had satisfied himself that Sherlock was taking in air, he picked up Sherlock’s wrist and settled his fingers over the pulse. Sherlock wriggled a little closer to him without quite waking up, and John disentangled the roll of covers as he rose, tucking them around Sherlock’s shoulders.

When he returned to the kitchen, he found Sarah awake, hunkered down in one of John’s old jogging outfits, staring blearily at the kettle, still too sleepy to do anything else. John shuffled over to the kettle, inspected it, and filled it. “Tea?” he asked.

“Please.”

He took two mugs from the cupboard and dropped tea bags into them. Sarah scrubbed her hands over her face.

“Sherlock?” she mumbled.

“Fine.”

“Great.”

They lapsed into silence again. John cleared a corner of the kitchen table and set out sugar and milk. The kettle boiled, and he poured the hot water and brought the mugs to the table. The fragrant steam revived him enough to stir and sip, and the world began to look much friendlier. Sarah managed a smile, and John decided that he might just be able to string more than one word together after all. “Scrambled eggs?”

Sarah nodded. “I’ll do the toast.”

As they moved around the kitchen making breakfast, it struck John that, had the previous night been an actual date involving an experimental trip to a swingers’ club and not an undercover operation involving a very real trip to A & E, the morning after might have been substantially the same. Something warm flowered in his chest at the thought, followed by a niggling worry that this was probably not the most normal way to think about things. But, in the end, it was the pattern of John’s life, and he couldn’t say that it was entirely without its advantages.

Sherlock made an appearance an hour later, stumbling into the kitchen still dressed in the crumpled black shirt and trousers he had worn the night before, with his old blue dressing gown added on top. “Well, look who’s up,” Sarah said cheerfully. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

Sherlock opened his mouth and then frowned a little and shut it again.

“Throat still sore?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. “I’ll get you some tea, and maybe a little breakfast. Something soft. Though maybe I should take a look at you first.”

“I’ll do it,” Sarah said. “I think it’s my turn anyway.”

“Thanks.” John took down the first-aid box from its shelf and rummaged around in the drawers until he found a small torch. “Sherlock, let Sarah look you over, and I’ll make you a boiled egg with soldiers.”

Sherlock actually looked guilty at that. Sarah laughed and reached out to tilt Sherlock’s chin up a little so that she could examine the wounds on his neck. John smiled, filled a pan with water, and put bread in the toaster.

* * *

As per John’s initial plan, the morning passed peacefully. Sarah reported that Sherlock’s external injuries had begun to heal, and that the minor swelling inside his throat was going down. Satisfied at his progress, she accepted John’s offer of a shower, and reappeared some time later, dressed once more in last night’s bustier and miniskirt. “Got to go, I’m afraid,” she said, rummaging in her handbag for her car keys. “Have to get the car back to Laura.”

“Will you be all right dressed like that?” John asked. “Sure you don’t want to, um, borrow a sweatshirt or something?”

Sarah smiled. “No, thanks. Laura can assume what she likes about my evening. She’ll never guess the truth anyway.” And, with a kiss on the cheek for John and a pat on the shoulder for Sherlock, she was gone.

Sherlock picked his way through his egg and soldiers and then wandered off to clean his teeth and change into a softer, collarless shirt while John did the washing up. He picked up his violin, but discovered that it irritated his neck, and quickly put it down again. In the end, he settled for a lie-down on the sofa with _Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary_ propped up against his knees. 

John had showered and dressed and was contemplating the possibility of a quick trip to the shop for some ice cream when his mobile chirped. He picked it up and flipped it open. “John Watson.”

“John, it’s Lestrade. What the hell have you gotten me into?”

“Pardon?” John sat up a little straighter, and Sherlock turned to watch him.

“As if having to knock up a magistrate at one in the morning for a warrant weren’t enough,” Lestrade said. “You won’t believe what we found in that back room.”

“Oh, no. What?”

Lestrade’s voice sounded old and weary. “Ledgers. Big black ledger books. With names and . . . all sorts of details. Going back ten, fifteen years. Missing Persons is going to be backed up for months sorting this mess out.”

“Oh, dear God.” John glanced over at Sherlock, who was staring openly at him, as if willing himself to be able to hear Lestrade’s end of the conversation. “Have you managed to get even a little rest?”

Lestrade laughed bitterly. “Some of what I read, I won’t sleep for a week. Might as well work. Speaking of which, how the hell did this become a government matter?”

John closed his eyes against a headache that was starting to throb over his left eye. “Remember who sent Sherlock down there to investigate?”

“Remember? Don’t have to, he’s standing right -- hey! Let go! This is my --“

There was a shifting sound, and then Mycroft’s voice oozed over the line. “Terribly sorry to disturb you, Doctor Watson. I require the services of my brother and yourself for one final act of taxpayer evaluation.”

“No. Sherlock is to have a quiet day to recover from being nearly strangled to death on your say-so. Doctor’s orders.”

“Sherlock can rest later. His country calls. A car will be sent round to collect you immediately.” And the line went dead.

John turned his gaze to the ceiling and wished for the strength of will to refrain from punching Mycroft in the mouth until this business was finally over. When he thought he could speak without cursing, he turned to Sherlock. “Your brother has summoned us again. The car is on its way. You might as well put your shoes on.”

* * *

When Mycroft arrived a few minutes later, he had his mobile pressed to his ear. “And you have a recording of her statement? Good. Escort Doctor Sawyer home with her country’s thanks.”

“I hope you gave Sarah time to change her clothes before you questioned her,” John said by way of greeting. Sherlock lifted his chin so that he could stare coldly down his nose at his brother, an attitude that prominently displayed the marks on his neck.

“Doctor Sawyer has been most helpful in our enquiries,” Mycroft said.

“I’m sure. What do you need us for? Lestrade must have arrest warrants by now. What more can we possibly give you that the police can’t?”

“I need Sherlock’s eyes,” Mycroft replied. “One more time.” He paused, as if wondering whether he should say more. “The life of a girl may well depend on it.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “The police have the ledgers. Surely they’re competent to trace this girl.”

Mycroft sighed. “It’s not a matter of tracing. We know exactly where she is. The problem lies in extracting her from her . . . situation. And in this case, dear brother, you are uniquely suited to cutting through the dissembling, to the very heart of the matter.”

Sherlock looked away. The set of Mycroft’s jaw grew firmer. “Sherlock, I don’t wish to order you --“

“Then don’t.”

“But I will ask you to accord me the same courtesy you would give any other client. Finish the case. Solve it to your client’s satisfaction. Or you may find yourself receiving less than glowing testimonials.”

Sherlock’s fist clenched, and for a moment, John thought that Sherlock might just pre-empt both him and Lestrade. But then Sherlock opened his hand and bowed his head. “One more visit, Mycroft. But only one.”

“Let us hope that one is all that will be needed.”

Sherlock moved past Mycroft and collected his coat and scarf. He considered the scarf for a moment, not quite sure how best to arrange it, but clearly not wanting to leave it behind. John took it from his unresisting hands and draped it around his neck, crossing the ends loosely over his chest, so that the scarf would be present but not interfere. Sherlock shrugged into his coat and turned to stare at Mycroft. “Well?” he said. “If I must do this, I’d like to get it done quickly.”

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “The car awaits us downstairs.”

* * *

As he entered the car, John noted that Mycroft had come on his own, without his assistant. No one spoke as the car pulled into the flow of traffic. Sherlock gazed resolutely out the window, watching London pass by. Mycroft occasionally glanced at his watch.

“Not taking up too much of your time, are we?” John asked pointedly.

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth turned up in an expression that was in no way a smile. “Of course not. We remain well within our schedule. I would be notified of any change.”

“Of course,” John said. “And what is this schedule of ours? Why couldn’t it have waited for Sherlock to get his breath back?”

“A . . . stealth operation,” Mycroft replied. “The planets have aligned, and we will not see this particular conjunction of opportunity again. We must take advantage.”

John was silent for a few moments as he decoded Mycroft’s words. The car was now moving through a street of expensive houses that faced a park. It was not the Horsleys’ neighbourhood, but the income level was similar. “We’re going to arrest the Brightons, aren’t we?” John asked.

Mycroft made another one of his thin-lipped not-quite-a-smile faces. “We are certainly going to disrupt their Sunday dinner,” he said. “What follows depends to some extent on Sherlock.”

Sherlock roused at the sound of his name. “What? Haven’t I given you enough for an arrest already? Even the most idiotic Crown Prosecutor could make a case from those ledger books.”

“What you find or do not find may or may not have an impact upon the nature of the proceedings,” Mycroft said. “Whether or not this remains a matter for your estimable associate Detective Inspector Lestrade, or whether higher authorities must be involved. A simple matter of jurisdiction.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently, but had no time for any further objections. The car drew to a stop outside one elegant home that had two expensive cars parked in front of it. Several police cars waited at a discreet distance, their lights off. John, Sherlock, and Mycroft exited the car. Lestrade strode over to meet them, with DS Donovan trailing behind him.

“No,” Lestrade said. “Absolutely not. There’s no reason to bring them here. We don’t know what’s going on in that house, and I will not endanger civilians and cock up an arrest at the same time.”

“We both know they’re not really civilians,” Mycroft replied. “You may tell your superiors that they are acting as special assistants to a ministerial investigation proceeding concurrently with your criminal investigation, if it will put your mind at ease.”

Lestrade eyed the marks on Sherlock’s neck. “It doesn’t,” he said. “You weren’t in that hospital last night.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “If you are concerned about my brother’s safety, you can see perfectly well that he has a competent physician at his side.”

“Right,” John broke in. “Whose recommendation is to stop this pissing contest and get this over with so we can all go home. Now, are we going in or not?”

Lestrade frowned. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock stood a little straighter and looked Mycroft in the eye. “We’ve come this far.”

“Very good.” Mycroft smiled. “We’re going in.”


	9. And Mothers Monsters Prove

**9\. And Mothers Monsters Prove**

* * *

They took up their positions on the doorstep. Mycroft and Lestrade placed themselves in front of the door, with John, Sherlock, and Donovan arrayed behind them. Mycroft squared his shoulders and rang the bell. After a moment that was just a little bit too long, Jonathan Brighton opened the door. To John’s eye, he looked too pale, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of a sleepless night. But Brighton’s diplomatic smile was firmly in place, and he aimed it at Mycroft.

“Ah, if it isn’t Mycroft Holmes,” Brighton said. “Her Majesty’s dog at Kew.”

“Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?” Mycroft completed the rhyme and gave a thin-lipped smile. “I see you’ve kept up your classics. How good of you. As it happens, I am indeed on Her Majesty’s business.”

“What sort of business?”

“Well, that rather depends on you, doesn’t it?”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “We have a warrant.” He thrust the document at Brighton, who gave it a cursory glance.

“This is it,” he said. “You’re going to arrest me.”

Lestrade flicked a glance at Mycroft. Mycroft fixed his gaze on Brighton. “You have been granted an extraordinary grace, sir, and that is the power to control, within a limited extent, the moment at which Her Majesty’s dog unleashes his bite. I suggest that you employ it wisely.”

Brighton stepped aside, and they filed into the house. Just off the entry hall was a dining room, where Francine Brighton sat with Sir Niall and Lady Jane Horsley, examining some papers. Francine jumped to her feet as the group entered. “Jonathan, no! What are they here for? You can’t!”

Sherlock ignored her protests and strode over to Sir Niall, giving a cursory glance at the papers on the table. He moved to stand just inside Sir Niall’s personal space and glared at him. Sir Niall flushed bright red. “You! What are you doing here, you perverted freak?”

“Observing.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

“This is ludicrous,” Lady Jane spat. “My husband has nothing to hide.”

“If that is indeed the case, it is only because he has already hidden it,” Mycroft replied. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock sniffed, and then turned on his heel to face Lestrade. “Cloisters Wood,” he said. If you send a team out there immediately, and are very thorough about your search, you may still find Natalie Cook alive.”

Lestrade took out his mobile. “Cloisters Wood?” he asked. “You’re absolutely sure? We’ll only get one crack at this.”

Sherlock nodded. “Look at the mud on his shoes. He was out in some open land, not well maintained enough to be a park. Work gloves in his pocket; he was doing some kind of manual labour, digging perhaps. Mud splatters on his car, parked outside. The car is otherwise well maintained and clean, so the car had to have been driven over open ground quite recently. On the table, driving directions, downloaded from the Internet, the last street listed is Eaton Close, I suggest you start your search there, look for tire tracks.”

“And you think Miss Cook is still alive?”

“It’s possible,” Sherlock said. “She was alive when Sir Niall hid her. Didn’t have the stomach for murder, even with everything else he’s done, but he positively reeks of chloroform.”

Lestrade took a moment to digest the information, and then nodded crisply and began to dial. John glanced from him to Sherlock. “Sorry, I think I missed something. Who’s Natalie Cook?”

Sherlock grimaced. “You’ve met her, John, you just didn’t know it at the time. Last night, those ledgers I found. They had records of every girl this . . . group had kidnapped and sold. They were pierced with an identifying ring in their genitals, and stripped of everything, including their names, replaced by just a slave initial. Natalie Cook was sold to Sir Niall Horsley under the initial K.”

“K?” John frowned, puzzled, and then sucked in a breath as the sick shock of recognition washed over him. “Kay. The housemaid.”

“Oh, much more than that,” Sherlock said, fixing Sir Niall with a cold glare.

“You bastard,” Donovan added. “I’m going to slap the cuffs on you myself just as soon as they give the word.”

Mycroft turned to Jonathan Brighton. “Now is your moment,” he said. “You have one, and only one, opportunity to earn a minimal amount of grace in this matter. Tell us where you have hidden your girl.”

Brighton glanced around, taking in Sir Niall, who had collapsed, pale and sweating, into a chair, and Lady Jane, who stood stiff and remote at his side, and finally Francine, who whimpered and twisted her hands. He looked at Sherlock’s bruised throat, avoided meeting John’s eyes, and finally looked back at Mycroft. For a moment, he seemed to crumble. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He seemed to be searching for the right words.

And then, with the pounding of feet, the spell was broken. Two little girls, about seven and nine years old if John had to take a guess, burst into the room and clustered around Francine. “Mummy, help!” the older girl cried.

“Not right now, Chloe,” Francine hissed.

“But Mummy, you’ve got to come see!”

“No! Take Tess and go away. Mummy’s busy.”

Jonathan Brighton shook himself and smiled at Mycroft. “Ah, you almost had me there, didn’t you? I’d never do a thing to hurt a girl. Live with a house full of them, and I love every one.” He spread his arms in an expansive gesture.

“Liar!” Francine Brighton’s shout startled everyone. Tess and Chloe clung to each other and choked back tears. “Liar!” Francine shouted again, pointing at her husband. “How can you say that you love your family? All the hurt, all the humiliation you’ve put me through, all those other women, right under my nose!”

“You came with me!” Brighton yelled back. “You practically dragged me out to that club some nights. How can you call yourself humiliated?”

“As if you wouldn’t have taken up with some flirty young thing anyway,” Francine retorted. “At least in the club they knew you were mine. And I had friends who would comfort me whenever you were off shagging some other girl. You love this family? _I_ love this family! Who went out with you to party after party so that you would stay in this marriage and give the children a stable family?”

Tess burst into tears. Chloe tugged frantically at Francine’s sleeve. “Mummy, you’ve got to come help!”

“Not now!” Francine cried. Her entire body quivered with rage as she glared at her husband. “Those girls at the club weren’t enough for you in the end, were they? You had to go out and buy one who couldn’t say no!”

“Francine --“ Brighton reached out to her, but she ignored him.

“If I’d been -- I don’t know, sexier or kinkier, or whatever, would you have stayed home? I wish to God we’d never gone, and you’d never have met that _bitch_ Jane Horsley, and you’d never have gotten us into this!”

Lady Jane let out a gasp. All of the colour in Brighton’s face concentrated itself into two flaming spots on his cheeks. “If you hadn’t opened your big mouth, we’d be fine. A few more minutes, and the freak here wouldn’t have been a problem, but you had to blab to that Sarah girl, and you ruined everything!”

“Mummy, now!” Chloe screamed.

Mycroft clenched and unclenched his fists. “John, get those girls out of here,” he said, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. “They shouldn’t see their father pay for what he did to my little brother.” 

Mycroft looked more dangerous than John had ever seen him. John sprang into action immediately, taking the girls by the hand and steering them out into the entry hall. The shouting continued in the dining room, and Tess burst into a full-throated wail. On top of everything else, something was thumping somewhere in the house. John squatted down and put his hands on the girls’ shoulders. “Shh, calm down. Let me help you. My name is John, and I’m a doctor.”

It was as if he had spoken the magic words. Tess stopped crying, and Chloe looked hopeful. “Help, Doctor John,” Tess squeaked. “It’s my baby brother, Georgie. He fell down, and he can’t get up.”

For a moment, John feared he would be sick, but he forced it back. “Sherlock!” he called. “Upstairs, with me! Now!”

His shout attracted not just Sherlock, but the rest of the adults as well. Tess and Chloe sprinted upstairs, with the adults in hot pursuit. The thumping sound grew louder and more frantic as they approached the master bedroom. Sure enough, little Georgie who played in Regents Park lay on the floor, his body jerking uncontrollably in grand mal seizure. Francine screamed and clutched at her husband’s elbow, her earlier tirade seemingly forgotten.

John dropped to his knees and began to loosen Georgie’s clothes. “Mycroft, dial 999!” he snapped. “Tell them we’ve got a case of status epilepticus and we need an ambulance now.” Mycroft nodded and left the room.

It was only then that he realized that the thumping noise was not from Georgie’s seizure. It appeared to be coming from underneath the bed, and it was accompanied by faint cries. Lestrade made the connection at the same time, and he and Donovan pushed into the bedroom and knelt down to peer under the bed. Lestrade cursed at what he saw. He and Donovan reached and tugged, and pulled out a crude plywood box that looked distressingly like a coffin, except for the padlock that bolted it shut. Sherlock seized a heavy ornamental candlestick from the mantel over the gas fireplace and smashed the cheap lock away. He flipped the lid open and lifted out Georgie’s nanny Dee, or, as John realized, a kidnapped girl known by her slave initial, D.

She was naked and filthy, her face red and wet from crying. When she reached out to Georgie, John saw that her hands were raw and bloody from beating against the lid of the plywood box in her desperate attempt to attract help. Donovan recovered quickly from the shock of seeing her and opened the chest at the foot of the bed. This chest contained only spare bedding, and Donovan pulled out a blanket to wrap around the shivering girl. Lestrade pulled a walkie-talkie from his coat pocket and radioed for backup.

John decided that Lestrade and Donovan had their situation well enough under control and turned his attention back to Georgie. “Where is his medication?” he asked. No one answered. John glared at the Brightons. “He’s your son,” he said. “You’ve got to know this. He has prescribed anticonvulsants. Where are they?”

Francine dropped to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Jonathan’s blank expression slowly changed to one of terror.

“In the bathroom,” Chloe piped up. “Behind the mirror on the high shelf. I’ve seen Dee get it, but I can’t reach it.”

“I can,” Sherlock said. “Show me, Chloe, quickly.” He followed the child out of the bedroom and returned in short order carrying a needle-less syringe and a drug vial. The prescription was for intranasal midazolam. The syringe was marked for the proper dosage, and John filled it, attached the atomizer tip to the syringe, and administered the drug, half a dose in each of Georgie’s nostrils. He glanced at his watch and sat back on his heels, waiting to see if the medication would work.

Mycroft chose that moment to reappear, accompanied by several uniformed police constables. He blinked once in surprise before crouching down beside John. “The ambulance is en route,” he said. “How is the boy?”

John sighed. “I don’t know. I gave him his medicine, but it may take a few minutes to work.” He glanced at the Brightons. “He should have had it five minutes ago.”

Mycroft rose and turned his attention to Dee, who was sniffling gently on Donovan’s shoulder. “Who is this?”

“That’s Dee,” Chloe said. “She’s our nanny, but she mostly takes care of Georgie.”

“May I present Paige Kinley,” Sherlock added, and Dee -- Paige, John corrected himself -- looked up at the sound of her real name. “Registered to Jonathan Brighton in the ledger books.” He gritted his teeth as he spoke. John noted that he still had Chloe by the hand, and he wondered which of them was the one actually taking comfort from the handclasp.

In the distance, John heard the siren of an ambulance approaching. Mycroft turned to face the Brightons, pale with rage.

“You had to set your brother on me,” Jonathan Brighton said. “Did you think I’d forgotten what a prying little snot he was? We could have resolved this like gentlemen.”

“Like gentlemen?” Mycroft spat. “What gentleman could forget that his nation abolished slavery in 1833 and has condemned the practice ever since? And you thought yourself fit to represent her, sir?” He turned away from his old school friend. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, do your duty.”

Lestrade nodded to the constables and moved in to arrest the Brightons and the Horsleys, pushing them out into the hallway so that the paramedics could come in. John handed them the midazolam syringe, helped himself to some of their gauze pads, and went to examine Paige. He cleaned the blood from her hands and accepted her fierce hug before handing her back to Donovan. “See that she goes to hospital along with Georgie,” he murmured.

“Of course.” Donovan slid an arm around Paige’s shoulders and led her over to the paramedics.

John turned around to see Sherlock, standing off to the side, still clutching Chloe’s hand, with Tess clinging to his leg. His face was pale and his expression vague, but his eyes burned as he watched the arrests. John put a hand on his shoulder. “Sherlock?”

“My throat hurts,” Sherlock said. “Can we go home now?”

* * *

Between Lestrade and Mycroft both wanting statements from Sherlock and John, going home was not as simple a proposition as Sherlock would have liked. But John put his foot down, and, after promising Lestrade that they would both make formal statements the next day, telling Mycroft exactly where he could shove his questions, and making a brief call, he got Sherlock out of the Brightons’ house and onto the main road to hail a taxi.

Sherlock was silent and distant for much of the ride home. He roused only once to glance at John. “The boy. Georgie. Your opinion, Doctor?”

John shrugged. “I don’t know, Sherlock. Status epilepticus is dangerous, can lead to serious brain damage. On the other hand, he’s a kid, and they bounce back from a lot of things. Dee -- sorry, Paige took care of him, as best she could, but . . . I don’t know, Sherlock. I honestly don’t know.”

Sherlock turned to stare out the window again. His jaw twitched, and John could see that he was tired and in pain, but too agitated to rest.

“You did well,” John said softly, as the taxi approached Baker Street. “You broke a trafficking ring that no one else knew existed, you’ve freed I don’t know how many young girls, and you’ve made sure that the Brightons and the Horsleys will go to prison instead of plum government jobs. There are a lot of people who’ll thank you for that.” He pointed out the window as the taxi drew to a stop. “Look, there’s one now.”

And, just as he had asked when he had called her, Mrs. Hudson was waiting in the doorway for them. Sherlock’s eyes brightened when he saw her, and he fished a few crumpled notes from his coat pocket, dropping them into the driver’s hand. John followed him out of the taxi and gave a relieved sigh as Mrs. Hudson wrapped Sherlock in a gentle embrace. They stood like that for a moment, and then Mrs. Hudson lifted Sherlock’s head off of her shoulder.

“Come on into the kitchen, dear,” she said. “You’ve had a hard day already. I’ll make you a cup of tea, and then I’ve got some bottles of Diet Coke and a fresh packet of Mentos all ready for you to play with.”

To John’s immense relief, Sherlock managed a little smile, and John was able to relax. “I’m going to go upstairs and tidy up a bit,” he said. “Come up whenever you’re ready, Sherlock.”

“Oh, I think we’ll be fine down here for a while,” Mrs. Hudson said. Her arm around his waist, she steered Sherlock into her flat and shut the door. John blew out a breath, wiped his hand over his face, and went upstairs to put his home in order.

* * *

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: Many thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this story. I very much appreciate all the comments and conversations I’ve had with you about it.


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